Dear Dad, I miss your pizzas. The white one, that had splashes of olive oil and oregano on the puffy dough, a snow-fall of skinny onion slivers, and a salty top. The eggplant one, with a deep red homemade sauce, shreds of fresh cheese, and slices of the spongy vegetable. My boys prefer loads of cheese and dots of pepperoni, but we still use your pan. When I was a child and week after week I helped you shop and then cook pizzas, how could I know that someday – some unthinkable day when you were gone – I would…