The kitchen turned into a kind of beautiful chaos. Dough was flying, wine was pouring, no rules just vibes and good times. The playlist bounced between Italian love songs and jazzy dinner music, and every few minutes someone yelled, “Wait, try mine!” while holding a slice like a trophy.

We had aprons on hand that helped make the abiance even more special (it helps to date a chef). Everyone picked one out and tied it on like it was a uniform. It made everything feel a little more cinematic, like we were all in an italian cooking class.

I got a little crafty and made menus earlier that day—just for fun, nothing fancy. A little extra flair to make the night feel special. Sometimes it’s those unnecessary details that make the whole thing feel like an event.

The spread was wild: spicy sausage, roasted peppers, basil, creamy burrata, sautéed mushrooms, shredded mozzarella, grilled chicken, pepperoni that crisped at the edges, and more. Everyone built their own pizza like it was an art project—some minimalist, some maximalist, all delicious. From classic margaritas, to buffalo chicken slices, we had it all and enjoyed it even more.

We used the Ooni outside for that quick-fire heat, but a pizza stone in a regular oven works just fine too. The crusts bubbled and blistered in minutes, the smell was outrageous, and the whole thing felt like something out of a dream—or at the very least, a good scene in a movie.

And just when we thought we’d hit peak perfection, my girlfriend brought out a homemade tiramisu. It was everything it needed to be with a pistachio added flare. We passed the dish around with spoons, full and barefoot, candles flickering on the table, flour still dusted across our sleeves.

So no, it wasn’t Italy. But it was something close—a warm, messy, wine-stained version that I’ll keep chasing again and again.