The first Christmas my mom and I spent alone after my dad died was looking to be bleak. We sat by the tree on Christmas Eve, watching the clock, realizing it was still hours before we could reasonably go to bed. Suddenly, my mother perked up. "I have a frozen pizza. How does that sound?" Then she directed me to get under the tree and find a present from her good friend Minnie. "I'm pretty sure it's a bottle of wine." Soon we were sipping and munching on a Tombstone pepperoni pizza and opening gifts, which my mother had always resisted before Christmas morning. It ended up being a warm and wonderful and memorable evening, and I've carried on the pizza tradition--albeit not frozen--almost all of the intervening years. This evening Tom is the pizza maker.