“All right then, that’s pretty fast,” Holly said. “So we might as well start the water boiling for the gnocchi, since that will take several minutes in itself. Simon, we’ll need a large pot to boil fifty pieces of gnocchi, big enough so that the gnocchi isn’t too crowded, as when they’re done they float.”
“Like fish,” Mia said. “That’s how you know your goldfish is dead. Floats.”
Simon laughed and reached for the largest pasta pot on the shelf of pots running the length of wall above the stove. “I never could keep a goldfish very long.”
Holly asked him to fill the pot half with water and to set it on a middle burner to boil. That done, she asked Mia to read the first two steps for the chicken.
Mia scanned the sheet for where to begin. “Pound the chicken breasts between two sheets of plastic. Season with salt and pepper, then dredge in flour, then beaten egg, then polenta. What’s polenta?”
“Polenta is a cornmeal, an alternative to bread crumbs. My grandmother loved the flavor it added.”
Holly directed Juliet to get three large, flat plates from the cabinet marked Plates (her grandmother had long ago labeled everything to make it easier for her students to feel at home in her kitchen) and to fill one plate with flour, one with the polenta and cheese, and one with egg beaten with a splash of water. Once the plates were arranged, Holly handed each student a small can of tomatoes and asked them to each pound on a chicken breast until it was a quarter of an inch thick.
“Take that!” Mia said, slamming down the can on the poor plastic-wrap-covered breast. She laughed. “Cooking is more fun than I thought.”
Even Juliet smiled at that.
“Now everyone take your piece of chicken and move through each plate,” Holly said, “coating it in the flour, then in the egg, then in the polenta cheese, and then you can lay them on a cooking tray. Tamara, can you find a large cooking sheet in the cabinet marked Cooking Trays?”
As her students moved from plate to plate, Holly watched them, unable to hold back her burst of glee. She was teaching. Really teaching. The students were following her steps and clearly enjoying themselves. Juliet seemed absorbed in her task as she dredged the chicken in the flour and then the egg, carefully laying it on the polenta cheese.
“When do we add our wishes?” Tamara asked as they moved on to the next step of selecting a frying pan, pouring in oil, and turning the burner on to medium-high. “I know what I want.”
“What?” Mia asked.
“For my family to lay off and stop making me feel like a loser for not being married when my younger sisters are.”
Simon nodded, his blue eyes on Tamara. “I think we all want our families to lay off.” He seemed about to say something else, but he clamped his mouth shut and handed Holly a stick of butter.
“You can each add your wishes any time you begin cooking,” Holly said, adding a pat of butter once the oil was hot. “What you don’t want is for the food to be done before you’ve added the final ingredient.”
As Mia collected the plates from the island and put them in the sink, she said, “I wish that my dad won’t marry that stupid, fake bobblehead. That’s my wish. Please come true. Please come true. Please come true,” she added, hands in prayer toward the ceiling.
“Who’s the bobblehead?” Tamara asked, dipping the end of a cutlet into the pan to see if it sizzled, per the instructions. It did, and everyone crowded around the stove, carefully laying down their cutlets in the pan.
“My dad’s girlfriend. She’s a pretty good cook, I hate to say. How such a fake bobblehead makes such good lasagna is beyond me. I have to learn how to cook even better than she does so that my dad won’t think he has to marry that makeup face so we won’t starve. My dad keeps saying we can’t live on his burned steaks. I’m so afraid he’s going to marry her. If I can just learn to cook and get Daniel to ask me to the dance, then he won’t marry her.”
“What does Daniel have to do with it?” Simon asked, keeping an eye on the chicken. Now that it was almost done, he briefly consulted the recipe, then dropped the gnocchi into the boiling water.
“My dad’s also always saying that he doesn’t know enough about the needs of twelve-year-old girls and dresses and dances and all that stuff,” Mia said. “Like I care about any of that? So if Daniel does ask me to the dance, which I so hope he does, then my dad will really see—I can cook, I’m doing girly things on my own, and we’re just fine on our own.”
Simon nodded at Mia. “Very clever girl. If this Daniel doesn’t ask you to the dance, he’s a fool.”
She studied him for a moment. “Can I ask you something? What makes a boy like a girl?”
Simon gave the gnocchi a stir. “When I was twelve, I fell madly in love for the first time with a girl named Christy. She had bright red hair and freckles and she was so skinny that she could squeeze through the slight opening in the locked fence between our houses. She talked about all sorts of interesting stuff, like her family, that she was waiting to see a shooting star, that she liked to spend her Saturdays clam digging with her father.”
Mia frowned. “Nothing I have to say is all that interesting.”
“You’d be surprised,” Simon said, taking the cutlets from one pan with a large spatula and setting them to rest on covered paper-towel-lined plates. “I just knew that I liked girls who spoke their minds, said how they felt, were full of ideas. Like . . . my wife. And I guess I’d better make my wish, since the gnocchi is almost done. I wish she’d—I wish she’d change her mind.”
Tamara drained the gnocchi, everyone watching the steam rise up to the ceiling. “About … ?” Tamara prompted as she returned the gnocchi to the pan.
“Wanting a divorce,” he said, eyes on the floor. “Having an affair.” He glanced at Mia and sucked in a breath, as though he realized he was saying too much in front a kid.
“Won’t you be mad at her, though?” Mia asked. “For cheating on you? My friend Emily hasn’t talked to her ex-boyfriend for three days. Even though they’re in four classes together. And she says she’s never going to talk to him again. He kissed someone else during lunch period—in front of everyone. That’s how he broke up with Emily.”
Simon nodded. “Mad, yes. But I think I’m full of forgiveness at this point.”
Everyone was quiet for a moment. And then Mia turned to Holly and said, “What’s your wish?”
“We don’t need to say our wishes aloud,” Holly said, adding the remaining cheese and butter to the gnocchi as Tamara gently stirred it. “You can say them aloud, of course, but you can also wish them silently into the recipe.”
“It won’t work anyway,” Juliet said.
Everyone turned at the new voice. Juliet stood at the stove, a small bowl of dried sage in her hands. She measured out the amount and added it to the pot. “I can wish and wish and wish but what I want will never come true.”
“Some things can’t,” Holly said. “For the past three weeks I’ve wished my grandmother would come down the stairs, put on her apron, turn on the Verdi she loves so much, and begin humming as she starts making the pasta. But it’ll never happen.”
“So why wish it?” Mia asked. “That’s kind of like a wasted wish, since you only get one per recipe.”
“The heart wants what it wants,” Holly said, repeating her grandmother’s words. She could see that Juliet had tears in her eyes, so she added, “Mia, could you and Tamara grab the ingredients for the salad?”
Mia glanced at Juliet and took the binder over to Tamara and together they began collecting the romaine and spinach.
Everyone (except Juliet, who remained silent) put their memories, happy and sad, into the gnocchi and the cheese sauce while giving it a stir. Holly’s happy memory was that her grandmother had taken a photo of the two of them the night before she died. Camilla had printed it out and stuck it inside the beveled edge of her vanity mirror, and when Holly had noticed it the next day, she was so happy to have it. Her sad memory was the loss itself. Juli
et remained silent and had twice left the room, but she had returned. Simon’s sad memory was the day he moved out of his house, his daughter crying in her room and refusing to come and say good-bye. And his happy memory was seeing her face every other Saturday, even if she’d only agree to visit for the day and not the entire weekend. Mia’s sad memory involved meeting her mother’s “loser husband who smelled and had no shoulders.” Her happy memory involved catching Daniel checking her out in American history that afternoon. Tamara’s happy memory had been the day she’d broken up with her last boyfriend, a control freak named Laird. Her sad memory was the way her sisters had made her feel for breaking up with a good-looking doctor just because he was “a little controlling”—and then explained the “controlling” included coaching her on what to say at lunch with his parents, who were Yale graduates.
“What a jerk he was,” Tamara added as she washed the lettuce and spinach. “Holly, did you know that your grandmother is responsible for my sister’s wedding? Francesca came in to have her fortune told, and Camilla told her she would meet the man she would marry the next week by the pier. And she did. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Did my grandmother ever tell your fortune?” Holly asked Tamara.
“I made an appointment, but I canceled it three times. I’m not sure I want to know. I mean, what if my sister didn’t want to spend an entire week painting by the pier? She felt she had to because her destiny was awaiting her. I’m a little afraid of that.”
“I can understand that,” Juliet said, and again, the sound of her voice was so unexpected that everyone stopped and turned to look at her.
“Your grandmother must have told your fortune,” Mia said to Holly.
Holly rolled her eyes. “I almost wished she hadn’t. Supposedly, I’ll know my true love if he likes this disgusting Italian dish called sa cordula. Sautéed lamb intestines and peas.” She mock-shivered.
Simon laughed. “Who would like that?
“No one so far,” Holly said.
He collected the ingredients for the salad dressing, a simple garlic and oil. “Fate and fortunes are a funny thing. Tamara, do you think it was fate or did your sister engineer that meeting because she knew it was her fortune?”
Tamara shrugged and gave Simon the huge bowl of salad, ready for his dressing. “I have no idea. We’ve gone over that question so many times. I just know it’s so romantic.”
“You know what would be totally weird?” Mia said. “If Holly found a guy who actually liked lamb guts and even though he was really ugly and mean, she still felt like she had to marry him just because he was supposedly her great love.”
“That would be weird,” Holly said. “Which is why it’s a good thing no one on earth could possibly like the dish.”
“I’m not sure I believe in fate,” Simon said, drizzling the salad with the oil and garlic. “When I first saw my wife, I wasn’t attracted to her at all. I thought she was too pretty, if that makes any sense. Almost plastic-pretty, you know? But as I got to know her—we used to be coworker scientists at the same laboratory—I fell madly in love.”
“That could still be fate,” Mia said.
“True, but now I’m living in a small two-bedroom apartment in some hideous condo complex, and Cass, that’s my daughter, hates the room I tried to set up for her and now she doesn’t want to come over. I don’t want to force her to stay over and make things worse, but I’m her dad—I want a close relationship with her.”
“How old is she?” Tamara asked, ladling the gnocchi into a serving bowl.
“Eight,” Simon answered. “The last time she came over, a month ago, I tried to make her favorite meal, spaghetti and meatballs, but it came out awful—chewy spaghetti and hard as rock meatballs and the sauce was bitter, and the entire day was a mess. I guess that’s why I signed up for this class—I thought I’d learn to cook her favorite meal and maybe that would help. She loves spaghetti. She’d eat spaghetti for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if her mother would let her. With butter, with tomato sauce, with meatballs. And I don’t want to open up a can of Chef Boyardee again. She’s only eight, but I feel like she knows that it’s canned garbage. I care what she thinks.”
“We’ll definitely put spaghetti and meatballs on the menu for next week’s class,” Holly said as she placed each cutlet on a plate. “You’ll learn how to make killer meatballs and spaghetti that she’ll want to come over every day for.”
He gave a brief smile, but then stared at the floor. “Three months ago, my life was one thing and now it’s—” He glanced around as if embarrassed at much he’d revealed, then stared down at his hand—the left one, Holly realized. “Every time I look at this ring on my finger, for a moment I forget that it’s not exactly symbolic of anything, you know?” All eyes went to the silver ring on his left hand. “And now, because my wife left me for some sleazeball rich ambulance chaser, I see my eight-year-old daughter every other weekend and alternating Wednesdays.” He shook his head.
“I’m glad you love your daughter so much and care what she thinks,” Mia said. “That gives me hope.”
Simon smiled at Mia and brought the huge wooden bowl of salad over to the kitchen table. “Good.”
Holly glanced at Juliet, who’d been so quiet. She was staring out the window at nothing in particular, just the gathering dark.
“You’re a good dad,” Mia said. “What if my dad doesn’t care what I think?” She picked at the ends of her apron tie. “I mean, shouldn’t what family thinks count?”
Tamara stared at her. “Well, of course your dad should care what you think, honey. Who your father marries will have a big effect on you. I’m sure he realizes that.”
“I’m not so sure of that at all,” Mia said, setting the bowl of gnocchi on the kitchen table. “God, this stuff smells amazing. I’m starving.”
“Then let’s sit down to eat,” Holly said, placing a plate of the chicken at each place setting.
The five of them were about to take their seats when the front door bells jangled and a familiar woman rushed in, her heels clicking against the wood floor. She wore a tiny pink suit, a little froth of a sheer scarf around her neck, knotted at the side, and high-heeled black patent-leather peep-toe pumps.
The Bobblehead.
“I’m not too late, am I?” she asked, her smile bright white. “I’d love to sign up for the class. The board outside said there’s room?”
Holly shot a glance at Mia, who was staring at the woman with contempt and disbelief.
Mia’s eyes narrowed. “You already know how to cook Italian. Why do you need to take this class?”
“Hi, sweetie!” she directed at Mia, blowing her the equivalent of an air kiss. “Yes, I’m a great cook and Italian is one of my specialties, but wouldn’t it be lovely for us to do something together!” She dashed a smile around the room. “Oh,” she said, her gaze landing on Juliet. “Gray is not your color, hon. I’m a certified colorologist and an Internal Beauty Cosmetics saleswoman. I’d say you’re a summer. No, a spring. Springs can’t wear gray—and certainly not that shade.”
Mia was shooting Holly a very satisfied I told you so smile.
Juliet stared at Jodie for a moment, then her gaze moved out the window.
“Oh, pah,” Jodie singsonged. There I go again. Always the businesswoman. I would love to take this cooking class, even though it looks like I missed the cooking part tonight. Which one of you is Camilla?”
“I’m the teacher,” Holly said. “Holly.”
“Oh.” Jodie looked confused. Mia shook her head. “Holly. Well, anyway. Is there a spot available?”
Holly could feel Mia’s eyes boring into hers. No. Tell her no.
“I’m sure there isn’t,” Jodie rushed to add, with a tight smile. “But I at least wanted to stop in and check.”
Ah. She didn’t mean it. That would make it much easier for Holly to lose her course fee.
“I’m so sorry,” Holly said, “but since this is my first time teaching my gran
dmother’s course, I’ve capped the number of students at four.”
Holly could see the woman’s relief. The idea to take the course had clearly been Liam’s.
“Oh, darn,” Jodie said. “Mia, I was so hoping we could enjoy an activity together. Well, then, bye, all. Oh, and I’ll just leave some Internal Beauty Cosmetics pamphlets and my card on the table if any of you want to discuss fall colors. Now that summer’s gone, we all start looking a little washed out.”
As the door bells jangled behind her, Juliet suddenly started laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said, catching her breath. “But that was funny.”
“You should hear her try to tell a joke,” Mia said. “Opposite effect.”
There were snickers, and then when they sat down to test their first meal, there was a chorus of “not bad” and “this is pretty good” and a long discussion about next week’s menu, which everyone agreed to change to spaghetti and meatballs so that Simon could learn to make the kind that would keep a kid coming back for more.
Class one: A-plus.
As Holly finished cleaning up the kitchen (Mia had missed a lot), she headed out to the porch swing with a cup of tea and her grandmother’s diary. She couldn’t see the bay from here, but the sounds of water lapping and the warm rush of breeze almost lulled her to sleep. She could probably fall asleep out here and be perfectly safe, except for a raccoon poking up to steal the slice of leftover tiramisu from yesterday.
“Nonna,” she said to the dark sky. “Tonight was a success. I did it. No one stormed out and called me a fraud. No one demanded their money back.” She was dying to find out what had happened with the four women who had taken her grandmother’s class. Had they come back? Did Annette’s husband die? Holly opened the diary and read.
August 1962
Dear Diary,
They came back the following week with their ten-dollar bills, the four women full of excitement. They had each made their husbands the dishes the way I taught them, and there were changes. Big changes. Annette’s husband came home from work the day after she’d made him the veal parmigiana and said she deserved a nap after being home all day with the colicky baby. This, after telling her baby care was the mother’s responsibility. Nancy’s husband brought her a bouquet of lilies, her favorite flower, when he could just have easily chosen the cheaper carnations. Lenora Windemere’s husband booked a dinner cruise around Casco Bay. And Jacqueline’s husband made love to her for the first time in over seven months.
The Love Goddess’ Cooking School Page 7