This book is dedicated to my aunt Raffy, who always inspires me to be adventurous in cooking and in life!
Questo libro è dedicato a mia zia Raffy, che ispira sempre che io sia avventurosa in cucina e nella vita!
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Text copyright © 2013 by GDL Foods, Inc. Illustrations copyright © 2013 by Francesca Gambatesa. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Printed in the U.S.A.
ISBN 978-0-698-15269-4
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
A Note from Giada
Recipes
All Alfie could see was the goal. With each step he guided the ball toward the net, where a frightened-looking Jackson stood guard.
Quick as a cheetah, Alfie dodged the other players. From the corner of his eye he saw people shouting and waving their hands, but he tuned it all out and kept his focus steady. He aimed. He kicked. The ball sailed past Jackson, who reacted so slowly that he didn’t even raise his hands to block the ball until it was already bouncing in the corner of the net. Victory was Alfie’s.
“Yes! In your face, Jackson!”
Alfie ran screaming across the soccer field while the other team—which was really part of his own team, since this was a practice game—looked away, probably ashamed of their own performance.
“Bertolizzi!” Coach Schrader called from the sidelines. “Get over here!”
Alfie ran toward Coach feeling as if he’d found his place in life. This was the first year he’d played a sport in the after-school program, and it was turning out to be the best decision of his ten-year-old life. In fact, Coach was probably about to make him team captain!
However, Coach Schrader’s face looked a little red, like he’d been the one racing across the field toward total domination.
“What was that?” Coach asked, gesturing toward the field.
“A goal, sir. A point for my team.”
“Your team?”
“Well, the jerseys.” He tugged on the yellow jersey his side wore for the practice game.
“Alfredo,” said Coach. He rarely called the kids by their first names, and he had never called Alfie by his proper name. “You had shirts all over you. Didn’t you see?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, because of course he’d seen. He’d seen and he’d conquered!
“If you saw, then why didn’t you pass?”
“Pass?”
“The ball, Bertolizzi. Why didn’t you pass the ball? You had two teammates in the clear.”
“Coach . . . ,” Alfie said. Clearly the guy was confused. “I got the goal. My team won. Isn’t that the whole point?”
“Is that what you think?” his coach asked.
Alfie was positive this was a trick question. Of course he knew that winning was the point—they weren’t out here to just kick the ball back and forth—but he got the feeling he couldn’t say that out loud. So he said, “No, sir,” even though he really wanted to say, “Well, yeah. Duh!”
Alfie was 100 percent positive you couldn’t say duh to your coach.
“We have our first game on Saturday,” Coach said, as if Alfie needed reminding. He couldn’t wait! “I need players on the field who are a part of a team. Not some one-man show.”
“I’m ready to play, Coach.”
“I know you can play, but can you play on a team?” he said. “‘In your face’? Really?”
Alfie suddenly became very aware of his surroundings. The other players were standing on the field not too far from them. Coach wasn’t yelling at Alfie, but Alfie was sure those kids could hear every word. Even worse, some kids—including a few girls from his class—were sitting in the bleachers doing homework and watching practice.
“There’s nothing worse than an obnoxious winner,” Coach said. “Until you can be a respectful team player, I’m going to have to bench you for Saturday’s game.”
“But, Coach!”
“I’m sorry, Alfie. I’ve made my decision.”
“How am I supposed to learn to be a team player when I’m sitting on the bench?” Alfie asked desperately. It didn’t even make sense!
“Hopefully you’ll figure that out,” Coach said. “I expect you to be here suited up at every practice, on time with the rest of your team.”
“Suit up to do nothing? No thanks,” he said.
“I’ll tell you this once,” Coach Schrader said, lowering his voice. “If you’re not at the game on Saturday, supporting your team, then you’re off the team. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Alfie muttered.
The last thing he wanted was to get kicked off the team. But sitting on the bench the whole game? That was just about the worst thing that could happen.
“Should I order pizza from Presto Pesto for dinner?” Zia Donatella asked that night.
“Zia!” said Emilia, Alfie’s sister. She was older than him by one year, but sometimes she acted like a thirty-year-old. “You hate Presto Pesto.”
“I don’t hate anything, and neither should you,” Zia said. Her long salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a braid, and the faded, fitted jeans she wore looked straight out of a Western movie. A spaghetti Western, thought Alfie.
“Well, I don’t want it,” Emilia said. “I’d rather you make a pizza from scratch.”
“Oh, really!” Zia laughed, touching her stone necklace as she did. Zia had all sorts of trinkets from her travels around the world. Those stones just might be from ancient Egypt. “You think I can just whip up a homemade pizza like that?”
“Leave her alone, Emilia,” Alfie said. “We can order in if you want, Zia.”
Alfie only said this because Emilia was getting on his nerves. Everyone was getting on his nerves, except for Zia. As soon as he’d gotten home from school, his mom demanded he clean up the study, where he was sleeping while Zia stayed in his room. Then when his dad got home, he told Alfie he needed to take out the trash. Everyone was on his case today.
“Oh, kids, I’m teasing,” Zia said. “No pizza tonight. I’m cooking
you something new.”
“When you say new,” Alfie said, “what exactly do you mean?”
The first time Zia had cooked for them, something utterly impossible had happened. As she made them an Italian treat called zeppole, she told Alfie and Emilia about growing up in Naples, Italy, and how she would always buy a warm, freshly made zeppole any time she had a little pocket money. When Alfie and Emilia bit into the fluffy fried treat, they were transported—literally!—to Naples. They spent an entire day there with a boy named Marco, whose family made the best pizza in all of Naples. They even won the top prize at the city’s annual pizza festival.
So now that Zia had that look in her eyes and said she was going to cook “something new,” Alfie and Emilia became suspicious.
“Let me go pack a bag,” Alfie said. Maybe if they went to Naples again—and he hoped they would—he could be better prepared.
“No. State qui ed aiutami!” Zia said. “Stay and help. The food is always better when you cook together.”
Mom ruffled Alfie’s hair as she walked by him, and he pulled away. “Wow! Someone’s grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy,” Alfie said, even though he totally was. How could he not be after the way he was treated today?
Mom washed her hands. As she dried them on a towel, she went to the refrigerator. Meanwhile, Zia drizzled olive oil in a pan and turned on the burner.
“Bad day at school?” Mom asked.
“Is there ever a good day at school?” Alfie said.
“Watch the attitude,” Mom said, her arms loaded with fresh vegetables.
The last thing Alfie needed was to get in trouble, so instead of being mad, he decided to tell everyone what was wrong.
“School was okay,” Alfie said. “Soccer practice was a beating.”
“I thought you said you were going to be the big star on the team, captain and everything,” Emilia said with a smirk.
“I am, and I will be,” he said defiantly. “It’s just that Coach wants to give some of the other players a chance to play, so he’s thinking of sitting me out for Saturday’s game.”
“So, wait,” Emilia said. “You’re telling us that you got benched for being too good?”
“Basically,” Alfie said.
“Sure.” Emilia laughed. “Keep telling yourself that.”
“Could you stop talking, please?”
“Kids,” Mom warned.
“I said please,” Alfie said.
“We’ll come to your game no matter what,” Mom said. “You’re on the team, and we support you.”
“What’s this?” Zia said, inspecting Mom’s ingredients. “Red pepper flakes? That’s not how we make spaghetti in Naples.”
“A little heat changes it up. It’s okay to do things differently sometimes. Alfie, why don’t you cut up that carrot for the salad?” She pointed to the counter.
“It’s just that I’ve been working really hard,” Alfie continued. “When I’m on the soccer field I feel like . . . I don’t know. Like I’m really good at something.”
“You’re good at lots of things,” Zia said. “Your sense of direction is molto buono, and you know more about maps and geography than any other ten-year-old I know.”
“But if you’re sitting on the bench you won’t be going anywhere,” Emilia said with a laugh.
“Mom!” Alfie snapped. “Would you tell her to stop?”
“It’s a joke,” Emilia said. “Get a sense of humor.”
“I mean it, you two,” Mom said, pointing the knife she was using to slice an onion.
Emilia went around to Mom’s side of the counter and got a smaller knife out of the drawer. “I’ll slice the carrots,” she said, and Alfie had to bite his tongue to stop himself from calling her a goody-goody.
“Careful with the knife,” Mom said, watching her closely.
Emilia began cutting the carrots at an angle like Zia had taught her, while Alfie watched distractedly.
“Sure you don’t want to help?” Emilia asked. She’d finally softened her tone, and Alfie was glad for it.
“I just don’t understand Coach,” he said for the millionth time.
“The food will taste better if we all pitch in,” Emilia said with a smile, and Alfie knew she was trying to help cheer him up.
“Somebody, pronto!” Zia said at the stove. “Quick! Get me a pinch of salt!”
Despite his mood, Alfie walked around the counter and took a pinch of salt just like Zia had shown him. He tossed it into the pan as Zia stirred. “There!” she said. “Now it’ll really be special.”
For a flash before Alfie and Emilia took their first bite of dinner that night, Alfie thought they were going to be transported again. They’d all helped with dinner, and Zia had that glint in her eyes and kept talking about Naples. As had become their habit, Alfie and Emilia watched each other closely as they took their first bites of any Zia-cooked foods. But aside from their one and only trip to Naples, nothing ever happened. They were starting to think it was some crazy fluke, a strange dream they’d shared.
As it was, Alfie woke up the next morning in his own bed and had to face his own life. A life that involved not playing soccer at Saturday’s game.
He painfully sat through his classes until the final bell rang and he could go home. That night he was still so mad he could hardly concentrate on the chicken cacciatore Mom and Zia made for dinner. The adults savored every bite, though, and raved as they sat back in their chairs and admired the meal they’d just eaten.
“Maybe next time,” Dad said, “you’ll let me get in on the cooking. You girls are spoiling me!”
“Consentono! We allow you! Just jump in!” Mom said. “You don’t have to ask, just start dicing.”
“Stepping in between you two in the kitchen can be like stepping in between a matador and a bull,” Dad said.
“Where did you find this?” Zia held an asparagus between her fingers like a wand.
“That farmer’s market we went to last week,” Mom said. “I stopped by on my way to work this morning. I chose just the right ones, don’t you think?”
“In Naples you don’t have to be an expert—you only have to know your way to the market. The farmers do all the work for you. Remember?” said Zia.
Dad said, “The markets in Naples were a bit crazy, but I loved them. I could buy olives for my mother and a comic book for myself from the same stall.”
“The markets where you grow up are always special,” Zia said. “But the markets in other places, like Paris, are also hard to beat. The food always takes your breath away.”
“Well,” Mom said. “The French and their food. They put each meal on a pedestal.”
“Voilà! È fatto così!” Zia said. “That’s how it should be!”
“Hey,” Dad said, nudging Alfie with his foot. “Why are you so quiet tonight? Something happen at school?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Alfie mumbled.
Mom pushed herself up from the table and disappeared into the pantry. Calling out to Zia, she said, “I remember how Nona used to make me hot chocolate when I was feeling down.”
“Ah, yes!” Zia said. “My sister made the most wonderful hot chocolate in all of Italy. My own grandmother, your great-great-grandmother, had the best recipe,” she said to the kids. “So thick and creamy. Hot chocolate is the answer to all of life’s little problems. I remember my friend Sonja in Paris was so distraught once that I had to make it for her every night for a week straight. She claims that it was only through my hot chocolate that she was able to cope.”
“Who wants a mug?” Mom said.
Zia gasped. “What is that?”
Mom held up a box of hot-chocolate packets and said, “I just said I was going to make it for the kids.”
Zia pushed herself up from her chair and said, “Not with t
hat garbage!”
“Zia,” Mom began. “Not everything can be made from scratch. If it were up to you, we’d be making our own chocolate.”
“Can you do that?” Emilia asked .
“Where do you think chocolate comes from? The chocolate fairy?” Zia’s voice called out from the kitchen pantry. Soon she emerged. “Voilà!” In her arms she held chocolate, sugar, and vanilla. “Now, where is that cayenne pepper I saw?” she said, rummaging through the cabinet. “It may not be the French way, but it adds a fun kick to the chocolate.”
“Cayenne pepper?” Alfie said. Despite his decision to stay in a bad mood until the week was over, he couldn’t help but be curious about Zia’s new recipe. He got up from the table to join her in the kitchen. “Come on,” he said to his sister. “It’s chocolate.”
Soon the whole family was back in the kitchen with Zia at the helm.
“When I made this for my friend Sonja . . . ,” she began. “Ah! Here it is,” she said as she spotted the jar of cayenne pepper. “I made enough for both of us—a good friend stays until the last drop.”
Emilia smiled as she and Alfie settled themselves into the tall chairs at the island where Zia worked. Mom leaned into Dad in the doorway and watched.
“Your mother is right about one thing,” Zia said. “The French take food very seriously. They would never settle for some powdered chocolate nonsense. It’s all about quality.” She measured out the squares of chocolate as well as the milk. To Emilia she said, “No lazybones—help out. Get me some of that sugar there.” Emilia leaned over the counter and measured out the sugar.
“Oh, mademoiselle,” Alfie said, pinching his mouth together and going for some sort of French accent. “Wee, wee, wee! Vwa-lah!”
Emilia giggled and Dad said, “Bet you can’t spell yes in French.”
“W-E-E!” Alfie spelled, even though he knew he wasn’t right.
“Try O-U-I,” Zia said.
“Nuh-uh,” Emilia said. “She’s teasing you, Alfie.”
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