Francesca was standing at the stove when the two children came down the stairs in their pajamas, yawning and stretching the whole way to the kitchen, where they unceremoniously plopped themselves down at the table. Their eyes still full of sleep, and their hair an adorable mess, they happily reminded Francesca of her own children on all those many sleepy Sunday mornings of so long ago. In her mind, she snapped a picture of them, for there was no way to know if a moment like this would ever come her way again.
“So, what’s it gonna be?” she asked, flipping over the bacon she had sizzling in a pan on the stove. “You have your choice this morning, ladies and gentlemen. An egg in a blanket—that’s an egg fried in a piece of bread? Some French toast? Or how about blueberry pancakes from scratch?”
“How about all three?” yawned a hungry Will.
“Done!” exclaimed Francesca to their surprise.
In truth, if they had asked her to prepare eggs Benedict or homemade Belgian waffles or a seven-course meal, she would have been happy to do it.
After breakfast, the children went upstairs to get dressed, while Francesca cleaned up the kitchen. When they returned, they found that she had set out the flour, yeast, sugar, and salt on the table, along with a small bowl of warm water. Before long, Francesca had them mixing it all together, and then kneading the big lump of dough it formed, to make the bread. The two worked at it until Francesca put the dough in a bowl, covered it with a towel, and set it atop the oven. Will and Penny, their arms and hands and chins covered in flour, were amazed and delighted to watch how quickly the dough rose, nearly doubling in size. After a while, Francesca took the dough out and had them beat it down and thoroughly knead it again. It was a bit of a struggle for the two, but neither complained once. There is something exquisitely satisfying about working with one’s hands, especially for children, all the more so when the end result will be something warm and delicious to eat. Before long, the dough was ready to be formed into a nice classic loaf, which Francesca put on a flat pan and slid into the oven.
By the time Joey and Loretta arrived just after noon, the house was filled with the aroma of the freshly baked bread cooling on the counter and the lasagna simmering in the oven along with a nice baked ham. When they came through the front door, the children ran to their mother and hugged her as if they hadn’t seen her in days.
“Wait until you see what we made,” bragged Will.
“Ooh, I can’t wait,” said his mother, giving them both a squeeze.
Meanwhile, Joey walked into the kitchen, in his hand the Sunday newspaper that had been sitting out front on the sidewalk all morning. He came up behind his mother, who was busy putting together a little antipasto to have before dinner, and gave her a little hug and kiss on the cheek.
“Ciao, bella,” he said happily, as animated a greeting as he had ever given her.
“You’re looking rather well rested,” said Francesca with just a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
“Eh, I can’t complain,” said Joey with a shrug.
There was a certain mischievous gleam in his eye that gave Francesca to wonder just what her son might be up to. She watched him with a skeptical air as he opened the oven to assess the status of the ham and lasagna. A moment later, Loretta came into the kitchen, raving to Francesca about how beautiful the house was, before shooing Joey away so that she could help his mother get dinner out on the table.
When at last the food was ready and the table set, they all gathered in the dining room to start the feast. Everyone was talking and joking and carrying on at once as they all took their seats. Francesca, meanwhile, stood at the head of the table, smiling as she presided over the proceedings, for it was wonderful to once again have her home filled with such happy sounds. She was about to start dispensing the antipasto when Joey suddenly got up and left the room. He returned a few moments later with a bottle of champagne.
“My, my,” said Francesca as she watched her son pop the cork. “What’s the occasion?”
“Tell you in a minute,” said Joey, filling the adults’ glasses before turning to Loretta and asking, “A drop for the kids?”
“Uh-uh,” she playfully warned him, rolling her eyes.
“I’ll get them some ginger ale,” offered Francesca, hurrying off into the kitchen.
When everyone’s glasses were finally filled, Joey stood and raised his own. “Kids, mamma mia,” he began, “there’s a little something we—that is, Loretta and I—want to tell you, because we wanted you to be the first to know. We talked it all over last night and…well…actually, I had already made up my mind, but…”
“What?” Will and Penny asked impatiently.
Before her son could say another word, Francesca looked at Loretta and noticed that the smiling young woman was now wearing a diamond ring on her finger. Somehow, she had kept it hidden from everyone until just this moment.
“Oh, my God!” cried Francesca joyously. She jumped up and hurried over to the side of the table, where she kissed and hugged Loretta and then Joey and then Loretta again, and both the children.
“What is it, what is it?” cried Penny above the hubbub.
“What do you think it is, dopie,” said her brother. “It’s a ring.”
“Yes, but what does it mean?”
By now, for the second time in two days, Francesca was laughing and crying for joy at the same time.
“Dio mio!” she sighed happily. “What it means, young lady, is that we’re all going to be having Easter dinner together. And then, one day very soon, I think we’re going to go back to that store and buy you that nice blue dress!”
CHAPTER 52
The first thing Francesca did that beautiful afternoon in August, after Loretta and Joey had exchanged vows at the church before Father Buontempo and he pronounced them husband and wife, was to open her purse and pull out her rosary beads. Rolling one of the dark, smooth beads between her thumb and forefinger, she whispered a quick prayer for the two newlyweds and made the sign of the cross. Beside her sat Loretta’s mother, Jane. The two had only just met the previous evening at the rehearsal party, but they had hit it off at once, and Francesca was looking forward to getting to know her better. She seemed a feisty, high-spirited sort, though at the moment, she was dabbing her tear-filled eyes with a handkerchief while gushing to her husband, Paul, about how beautiful her daughter looked. With Penny as the flower girl in her beautiful new dress, and Will the ring bearer in his little tux, Loretta’s stepfather had gladly acquiesced to her request that he walk her up the aisle. All in all, it had been the loveliest of ceremonies, and Francesca herself was moved to tears.
Everyone had flown home for the wedding, and later at the reception, Francesca was in all her glory when the photographer gathered them all together to take a picture with Joey and Loretta. Looking about at her smiling daughters and sons-in-law and grandchildren, she rejoiced in knowing that they were all finally together once again under one roof. Even better, Francesca was looking forward to the coming week, when they would all, Penny and Will included, be staying at her house, while the newlyweds were off on their honeymoon. For seven chaotic days, her quiet home would become a madhouse. There would be daily disputes about where they all should go or what they should do, and they would all drive each other crazy—and it would all be wonderful.
After dinner, when the plates had been cleared away and everyone got up to dance, Francesca sat for a time alone at the table, taking in the beautiful scene. It wasn’t long, though, before she spied Mr. Pace moving tentatively in her direction. Francesca was happy that Loretta had invited him to the wedding, and a little smile on her part was all it took to encourage the old gent to come and join her.
“Is this seat taken, madam?” he asked, gesturing gallantly to the chair beside her.
“Only if you sit down in it,” replied Francesca with an approving nod.
“In that case, I’ll do so,” said a smiling Pace.
“So, how was your dinner?” she asked, once he h
ad settled in beside her.
“Oh, not bad,” he replied in a less-than-convincing tone. “How about yours?”
“Eh, it was okay,” shrugged Francesca, “but the sauce on the macaroni gave me agita.”
“I know what you mean,” nodded Pace. “That’s happened to me sometimes too.”
Francesca gaped at him for a moment. “Really? Now how would a Yankee like you know what agita is?” she asked, incredulous.
“Like I said once before,” he told her with a smile, “I’m not as much of a Yankee as people think.”
“And how is that?”
“Well,” said Pace, leaning a bit closer, “I’ll let you in on a little family secret. When my grandfather, who I was named for, first came to this country, he realized right away that it would be a lot easier to get along if he introduced himself to people as William D. Pace, pronounced like space, instead of his real name.”
“Which was…?” Francesca asked, her curiosity piqued.
“Guglielmo Di Pace, of course!” the old man chuckled. “He came from a little town in Abruzzo, just like my grandmother. The two of them wanted their children to do well in America, but they also didn’t want them to forget where they came from, so when they began to go by the name of Pace, they made sure to give all of their sons and daughters the letter D for a middle initial.”
“Ah, I can see that there is much more to you than meets the eye,” Francesca teased him.
“Well, not that much more,” he confessed with a shrug.
Just then, the sound of cheers and applause drew their attention to the dance floor, where Loretta and Joey and Will and Penny were holding hands in a circle, dancing together. Francesca smiled warmly at the magical sight and blew them a kiss.
“They all look wonderful together, don’t they?” said Pace.
“Yes, they do,” said Francesca.
As she watched them happily whirling about hand in hand, Francesca marveled at Loretta and Joey, and how they had finally become a family. In time, she knew, they would discover their own way of doing things, their own way of raising the children, keeping their house, sharing their meals. Their life together would acquire its own unique rhythm, beautiful and perfect in its own special way. It gladdened her to know that, even if unwittingly, she had played some little part in bringing them together. Just the same, Francesca felt a familiar tug in her heart.
“Well,” she said with a wistful sigh. “I guess they won’t be needing me anymore.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s the case at all,” Pace assured her. “Just look around. I think all of them need you now more than ever.”
Francesca looked at him and smiled. “You lawyers always know exactly what to say, don’t you?”
“That’s why we make the big bucks,” he said with a suave air. Then, clearing his throat, he quickly added, “Or at least, why I used to.” With that, the old gentleman got to his feet and offered his hand to her. “What do you say to joining them on the dance floor?”
“Oh, I haven’t danced in years,” said Francesca. “I don’t think I even remember how.”
“Then maybe now would be a good time to learn again,” he noted.
Francesca looked up into his earnest face and warm eyes. She wanted to go with him, but hesitated, for she realized that deep within, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on was holding her back. It reminded her of that moment of fear in the airplane, just before it was about to take off. Part of her wanted to stay there, safe alone in her seat, but another part was equally afraid to sit idly by and just let life fly away without her.
“Yes, Guglielmo Di Pace, you might be right,” she finally told him, giving him her hand. “Maybe now would be a good time for me to dance again.”
And off she went, leaving her fears behind. After all, sometimes in life, it was good to take a little chance.
PLEASE TURN THE PAGE FOR
A VERY SPECIAL INTERVIEW
WITH PETER PEZZELLI!
Where did the original idea for Francesca’s Kitchen come from?
A year or so ago, I came across a story in the newspaper about an elderly man in Italy. A retiree, the man had no family, lived by himself, and was very lonely. He was longing so badly to be part of a family that one day he decided to take out an ad in the newspaper, describing himself as a grandfather in search of a family. His offer to any family willing to take him in was simple: He would contribute his pension to help the family and cover the costs of letting him stay. In return, he simply asked that they let him become a part of their lives.
Evidently, the ad caused something of a national sensation because responses poured in from all over Italy. Families rich and poor offered to take the man in. His story struck a nerve in Italians who traditionally revere their elders. But the general population is aging and, as their society becomes evermore mobile with younger people moving about to wherever they might find the best employment opportunities, more and more Italian seniors are finding themselves in much the same situation. The traditional family structure is under great stress, and it is becoming a subject of great concern to Italians.
It occurred to me that much the same thing has been going on in America for quite some time. Americans have a long tradition of pulling up their roots and moving to wherever the opportunity for a better life might be. The result is that we often have families whose members are spread all over the country, living in isolation from one another. Sometimes it’s the children who grow up and move away. Other times it’s the parents who decide to retire to sunnier climes instead of staying close to their children. I began to wonder about the cost this arrangement extracts from people, the unseen toll that it takes, and the rich opportunities for fuller, more satisfying lives that go to waste. I started to think about how much all generations need each other, how much we have to give to each other if we’re only willing to share.
And that’s when Francesca popped into my mind.
In Francesca’s Kitchen, as well as your other novels, Home to Italy and Every Sunday, the characters’ lives often revolve around cooking, food, and the kitchen. Can you tell us a little more about this culinary preoccupation?
Home is a very special place in each of these stories, and the kitchen to me is the heart of every home. All the really good stuff in family life takes place there. It’s the first place you go when you come home after work or school because it’s the warmest, most inviting place in the house, and what’s better than walking through the door after a hard day and smelling something good cooking? The kitchen is where you sit around the table and eat and talk and laugh and just reunite as a family every night at dinnertime. The refrigerator is the place where you hang up your funny family pictures, or leave little notes or reminders, or display your kids’ schoolwork. There’s something warm and magical about a kitchen that people find irresistible. Ever notice how people at house parties tend to congregate in the kitchen? It’s generally where all the action is. It’s like a refuge from the outside world.
As for the role of food in my stories, I’ve always seen food as something that brings people together. Food is a universal language. Preparing and sharing a meal with others can be a profound expression of love, and affection, and friendship. I also think that sitting down at the table and sharing meals together is an important part of the foundation of family life. It doesn’t matter how simple the meal might be, the important thing is that you’re all there together, sharing it.
Besides all that, I simply love to eat!
You did an amazing job of getting inside both Francesca’s and Loretta’s heads. Is it difficult as a male writer to create such convincing female characters?
It was a challenge for me, no question about it, especially in the beginning when I was really struggling to understand who these two people were who had decided to invade my imagination. It took a long while for Francesca and Loretta to crystalize in my mind, but once they did things flowed a litte more easily�
��but it was never easy. It seemed like every time I was feeling confident that I had a firm grip on their personalities, they would become elusive to me, and I would find myself staring out the window for hours, trying to figure out what they were thinking and why they wouldn’t talk to me anymore. Of course, that’s just what women, fictional and non, have been doing to men ever since Adam and Eve, so it really shouldn’t have come as any surprise.
Did you draw from any real-life people as inspiration for any of the characters in Francesca’s Kitchen?
I think I draw inspiration, in some way or other, from everyone I meet, so my characters are often composites of many different people I’ve known or encountered.
As the general U.S. population ages, and considering that American families are often spread all over the country, do you think Francesca’s story might provide a practical model for building bridges between generations? Are there other solutions for keeping the elderly connected with their communities?
I think staying connected with your family is the place to start. We’re all different, so I don’t think there is any one solution, no single arrangement that would be right for everyone. If people take anything away from Francesca’s story, I would hope that it might be the notion that any attempt at all to keep older and younger generations closer, especially within a family, is more than worth the effort. Family members, old and young alike, can annoy us, frustrate us, make us want to scream, but in the final analysis we still need each other. When we drift apart, it diminishes our lives in so many ways, we can forget who we are and where we came from.
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