by Julie Vail
“Grouch,” she answered.
I pulled into the alley behind my house and parked in front of my driveway. Her car was small enough so I didn’t worry that it would be in anyone’s way. I loaded the cart, and wheeled it up to the house. She walked behind me and when she turned the corner to the front of my house, she stopped.
“Oh, John. This is lovely.” The sun was beginning to set over the houses across from me and it cast a glow behind her as she looked around. She had on army-green Capri pants that hung low on her waist, and a white tank that came just to the top of her pants. She was tall and her body was perfectly proportioned. And I’d had my arms around her enough times to know how it felt to hold her.
She came into the yard, still looking around. Then she looked at me and said, “How lucky you are, John—to live here.”
I nodded. “I know.” She came inside and I showed her around. Then we got down to business. The first thing she did was order me to pour her a glass of wine. The first bottle I opened was from my own stash, a 1998 El Molino Pinot Noir. I order this wine directly from the winery, and it is the best Pinot I have ever had. I was curious to know how she liked it, because it wasn’t exactly what she requested.
She took a sip and moaned. “Oh, that’s very nice, John.”
“I’m glad you like it. You’ll get your balls later,” I responded. “We’re just getting started.”
I went into the living room, picked up the stereo remote, and pressed ‘play’. I pushed the ‘random’ button, and then I joined Karen in the kitchen.
I watched her prepare the eggplant, and as she did, she gave me a history lesson on capunatina.
“Sicily was the hub of foreign occupation, if you recall from your history. Everyone who ever occupied the place left something behind—lucky for those of us who cook.”
“Let it go, lady.”
“You’ve got your olives, thanks to the Greeks,” she said, moving on.
I interrupted her. “Why didn’t you get them without the pits?”
“Well, by smashing them to remove the pits it releases the oils in the olive. It just tastes better. Now, may I continue?”
“Please.”
“Thank you. The North Africans brought the almonds and the raisins, and Spain brought the tomatoes and the cocoa powder.”
“So the cocoa powder is for the capunatina?”
“Um hum. It’s the secret ingredient. If you ever give this recipe out to anyone, leave that one ingredient out. My grandmother would make this dish, then get all coy when everyone would rave and beg for the recipe. She’d give it but leave this one ingredient out, and no one could figure out why the dish didn’t turn out as good as nonna Stella’s. The bottom line was she didn’t want her family complimenting anyone else’s cooking but hers.”
“Now I know who you take after.”
“Oh, yeah. Grandma was a real stinker. My grandfather couldn’t keep up with her, so he finally gave up and just followed along, which was not easy for an old-country Sicilian to do.” She smashed the last olive and threw it in the bowl, then glanced at me. “You can relate to that.” Then she smirked.
She filled the bowl with fresh water from the sink and set it aside. I came up behind her and placed both hands on the counter on either side of her, boxing her in. I got close to her ear and brought my voice down an octave.
“Are you calling me old-fashioned, Gennaro?”
“John, in the near future I’d like you to consider joining me in the twenty-first century. Think about it.”
“Would that be before or after I turn you over my knee?”
She let out a small gasp, and then she sort of stumbled. Regaining her composure, she picked up the large knife, raised it so the sun reflected off the steel blade, and said, “You wouldn’t dare.” Then she ran the sharp instrument cleanly through the eggplant.
I got the message, and now I had one for her. “It’s the not knowing whether I will or I won’t that will keep you on your toes, fragolina.” I still held my position behind her, barely giving her enough room to turn around. Then I ran my hand slowly over her ass. She managed to turn and face me. I could smell the wine on her breath, sweet and earthy. She held the knife in her hand.
“That’s a very good point, John.” She waved the knife in the air, and then looked down at that thing I think with most of the time. Then she raised her eyes to mine again, and with a sly grin she said, “Have some more wine.”
I took a step back and said, “You do the same.” We went back to our neutral corners, and so ended round one.
After everything for the capunatina was in the pan and cooking, I took her in my arms and started to dance with her.
“To make up for last night,” I said.
“Are you happy now?”
“Wait . . .” I slid both hands down over her ass. “Yes. Now I’m satisfied.”
“Good. May I continue cooking now?”
“Does that mean I have to let go?”
“I think that’s how it’s done.”
“It’s hard.”
She smirked, pressing slightly into me. “What else is new?”
“I want to make something very clear to you, lady. I’m going to feed you, and then I am going to make love to you. And I’m going to do both . . .” I brushed her lips with mine. “. . . slowly.” I kissed her again. “I’m going to let you get back to your cooking now. Okay?”
“Okay,” she squeaked. I reluctantly ended the dance by twirling her toward the stove and resumed my place on the barstool.
She stirred the capunatina around and then tasted it. With a satisfied nod, she gathered some of the rich concoction onto a spoon and slowly brought it to my lips. The richness of the eggplant mixed with the sweetness of the raisins, the saltiness of the olives, the crunch of the almonds, and the bitter heaviness of the cocoa were like planets aligned. It worked.
“Delicious, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, sir. It’ll be even better in two hours.”
“Come here.”
She looked at me with heavy eyes, the kind that can quickly lead to a trip to the bedroom.
“Is that wise?”
“It’s unwise to refuse me.” She came over and I pulled her between my knees and kissed her, slow and deep. When I finally let her up for air, I said, “I think the artichokes were next.”
“Oh, yes . . . thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She took the artichoke out of the bag next and carefully washed it under the sink. After a few deep breaths, she took a big knife, cut the top off, turned it over and pressed down hard, opening it up slightly. She ran it under the cool water again, then she set it upside down to drain. Next, she filled a medium sized bowl with seasoned breadcrumbs and enough olive oil to turn the crumbs into the consistency of wet sand. She grabbed the bowl, a pair of scissors and the trash can, and came over and sat beside me. She smiled without looking at me, then reached out and ran her hand over my knee.
She took the artichoke, righted it, and began clipping the thorns off each leaf, until every leaf on the outside was cut straight. This was a time consuming job. I’d watched my mother do it a hundred times. She reached into a bag I was seeing for the first time and unloaded an old fashioned demitasse pot, along with a pound of espresso, a bottle of Sambuca, demitasse cups and saucers and the thing she really wanted, a demitasse spoon. She took a healthy scoop of the mixture into the tiny spoon and filled each leaf, pushing the excess down with her finger so that every leaf bulged with the stuffing. When all the leaves were stuffed, she heaped a generous helping on to the top, shoving the mixture as far down into the middle as it would go.
She got out a pot just big enough for the artichoke to fit. She added three thin slices of lemon and a few garlic cloves to the pot, then slid the choke in and drizzled olive oil over it, added some to the pot, then she filled the pot with water to the first row of leaves.
She set the pot on the stove and turned the heat up, setting the
timer for 15 minutes. She then took out all the fruit she bought, washed and patted them dry, then sliced the peaches and plums. She put the sliced fruit into a baking dish, dumped in the raspberries, sprinkled a little sugar on top, then poured a little orange juice and about an eighth of a cup of brandy over the fruit and let it sit.
She exhaled, took a sip of wine, then turned to me and said, “Your turn, Molto Mario.”
Now it was her turn to sit and watch how it was done. I’d had fun with her up until now, but she would soon see that the ‘I’m incapable’ act was just that: an act. She was right. I had all kinds of girls cooking for me by acting like I didn’t know what I was doing. But for the first time, probably in my entire life, I’d met a woman who was into food, like me. It was no fun to cook for someone who didn’t appreciate good food, or the work that went into it. And when my friends were over, I preferred to drink and leave the cooking to someone else. Maybe now that would change.
I finely chopped my onion and sautéed it in a pan with some olive oil. Then I chopped up the fennel leaves and a little of the bulb and threw that in along with the currants and pine nuts. I opened the anchovies and put them into a double boiler to melt. In about ten minutes, I was completely finished with my end of things, and only needed to return to the kitchen when it was time to make the pasta and throw it all together. She’d definitely put more into this meal than I had. I gathered the wine and the woman, and took both out on to the deck. It was dusk now, so I lit some candles and we sat outside and enjoyed our wine.
Her feet were bare and she put them up on the arm of another chair and stared out on to the canal.
“I spent a lot of my childhood here,” she said.
“I thought you grew up in the Valley.”
“I did, but I spent a lot of time here. It saved me.” She sipped her wine. “My mother checked out for a bit while I was growing up.”
I ran my hand over hers and didn’t push it. “I love it here, too. It gives me peace.”
We talked about everything and nothing, and then she patted my knee and disappeared inside. In a moment she came out with a bowl filled with the capunatina, two plates, and a basket I’d never seen before filled with bread.
“Where did that come from?”
“I found it above the oven,” she said. “Things get lost above the oven.”
“Huh. It’s nice.”
“It’s lovely. I’ll put it away where you can find it in the future.”
“Whatever you say. You’re in charge.”
“Ooooh,” she tsked. “I will remind you of that later.”
The capunatina was rich and delicious, the bitter Sicilian olives contrasting with the sweetness of the sultanas and the cocoa. We used our bread to scoop it up, and before long it was gone. I went inside and opened another bottle of wine. The sun had long set, and the leftover colors cast a warm glow over Linnie Canal.
We let ourselves settle for about half an hour, then she disappeared again, and reappeared with a large plate with the artichoke surrounded by a yellowish sauce.
“Amazing,” I said, as I took a leaf off the artichoke and scraped the meat along with the stuffing into my mouth. “Mmmmm. Damn, this is sexy . . . you in the kitchen, barefoot . . .”
“You were pretty hot yourself, there, standing at the stove.”
I looked at her and ran my hand over her cheek. “You smell really good.” She let out a sigh. She was allowing me to seduce her, and it was very sexy. The women I’d been with lately practically tossed me over their shoulder on the way to the bedroom. I liked this way, with her, better.
It was close to 9:30 before we finally got the pasta together. By this time, we were well on our way through the second bottle of wine, which was a 2002 PlumpJack cabernet. We were both mellow and content. I turned the heat up under the fennel mixture I had prepared earlier, and added the melted sardines and a pinch of saffron. I mixed the pasta in, then put it all into a bowl and topped it with seasoned breadcrumbs. We dished the pasta up and sat. I watched eagerly.
She lifted the fork to her mouth, then her eyes rolled back and she moaned. “Oh, wow. Oh, my, John, this is wonderful. Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“My compliments. I misjudged you.”
I smiled. “I helped you along.”
She talked more about her childhood, and I talked about mine. We had similar stories, and stories that were worlds apart. She talked about being a doctor, and about how hard medical school was. And I talked about being a cop, and about how hard it is to look at the human condition at its worst on a daily basis without closure, without ever knowing if you’ve hurt or helped.
“You’re a hero, John, you and your colleagues.”
That touched me. I’d never been called a hero before. I liked the sound of it, especially coming from her.
It was about 10:30 when we had drained the last of the wine. Dessert sat all but forgotten. She asked if I wanted some espresso.
I nodded. “And you even brought the pot.”
“I wasn’t sure if you had one, being so incapable and all.”
“I don’t, and I haven’t seen one of these since I was home last.” It was an old-fashioned demitasse pot that you filled with coffee, then filled with boiling water, and somehow the two converged and suddenly you had coffee. I knew they were about thirty dollars at the local Italian store, but I never bothered to own one. That would change after tonight. She made me want to return to my roots a little—return to the familiar. It helped that she had similar roots of her own.
She filled the filter portion with the fine grounds and boiled the water to pour in to the top. She set out the demitasse cups and the spoons and made sure the Sambuca was at the ready.
We stood there, together, in the kitchen while the water boiled. Maxwell thumped through the speakers. I cupped my hand over her cheek. “Dance with me.”
“I did already.”
“Do it again.” I pulled her into my arms.
“You’re demanding.”
“Yes.” I held her around the waist, and she wrapped her arms around my neck.
She had a scent, some sort of perfume that eluded me. I would smell it one minute, then it would leave, run away, hide. I went in search of it. I buried my nose in her neck, and my hands in her hair.
And if you don’t know then I’ll say it
So don’t ever wonder
She ran her hands through my hair and we found each other then, and I covered her mouth with mine, and I vowed never to stop. She tasted like wine and basil; like life and sea and air.
She was breathing hard in my ear. “Dancing. Just like this,” she whispered. She pulled back and looked at me. “How did you know?”
I didn’t. Funny how sometimes it’s right there, and you don’t even see it—until you do.
“I know you. When are you going to get that straight?” Something about those bare shoulders caused me to bite the left one lightly. She gasped and I saw her nipples grow harder beneath the thin, white tank. I cupped one in my hand, and ran the other one down her back and over her beautiful ass, and kissed her with all the love and lust I’d held in since the night in the parking lot. I felt like I’d waited forever for this, and now it was here.
She pulled away, and still holding on to my face with both hands, said, “I’m telling you something right now. I am not going to fall in love with you. Do you understand? I will not fall for you!”
“I won’t fall in love with you either, Gennaro. In fact, I don’t really like you all that much now.” I unsnapped her pants, lifted her off the ground long enough to get them off, and then sent them sailing into the living room. I cupped my hands over her bottom again and lifted her up onto the kitchen counter. I pulled her top over her head and she reached for my belt and unfastened it. My pants fell to the floor. I kicked them off as she pulled my t-shirt over my head. I was straining now, and she reached down and ran her hand over the now very large bulge that was straining to break free.
&n
bsp; I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against hers. “Oh, God.”
“What, are you kidding me with this thing?” she said, cupping me again. “Jesus.”
“Don’t be afraid, Virgin Mary. I’ll be gentle.”
“Kiss my ass,” she whispered in my ear.
“I’m gonna do a lot more than kiss it before the night is through,” and I grabbed her cheeks with both hands.
“Slow down, baby. Slow down.” She had my head in her hands, and she took a deep breath, which prompted me to do the same, then she kissed me, slow and easy. I reached up and slowly unhooked her bra and took it off.
She was beautiful, and I did slow down. I caressed her body slowly, gently, feeling her strain against my hands. Her body and her softness filled my hands to overflowing, and I loved how she felt, so different. I lifted her off the counter, she wrapped her legs around my waist, and I carried her to my bed.
We were naked, our bodies intertwining. I explored every inch of her with my hands, with my tongue, smelling her, trying desperately to find that scent, that scent that had eluded me all night. And I felt like I was in another world, suddenly full of promise and endless possibilities. Softness flowed all around me, like I was floating on a cloud. I struggled to recall if it ever felt like this with the others, but I’d be damned if I could remember the others. I balanced myself above her and when I entered her, she gasped and tightened around me, and moved with me, as if we were waltzing and tangoing and fox-trotting, and I was leading. I could feel her building, moving closer to divinity, and so I stopped and I held her face in my hands, and I told her how wonderful she was, and how happy I was that she was here, with me, at this moment. I told her how incredibly beautiful she was, and how much better my life was with her in it. Then I slowly reentered her but I did not move.
“Please. Pleeease,” she whispered, and when that melody reached my ears, I moved then, slowly. And her moans were like oxygen to me. I moved with her and against her, until she shook and tightened around me from deep down inside. She said my name over and over again, and when my time came I murmured her name like a prayer.