Smitten with Ravioli

by Ellen Jacobson

  * * *

  After getting changed into clean clothes back in my room, I head to Mia and Isabelle’s apartment building. When I walk into the courtyard, I see Lorenzo talking on his cell phone. He motions at me to hang on, then continues to pace back and forth, talking in rapid-fire Italian.

  While I wait, I watch the cat perched on the edge of the fountain, sticking his paw into the water and terrorizing the fish. I can see drool dripping from his mouth. Must be because of all the excitement of stalking his prey. I worry that the creature is going to become dehydrated from the rapid rate of saliva he’s producing, but not enough to pick him up and try to intervene. The thought of getting cat drool on my clothes makes me shudder.

  Lorenzo doesn’t share my fear. After hanging up, he scoops up the cat and kisses the top of his head, totally oblivious to the fact that saliva is spattering everywhere.

  After setting the cat back down so that he can get back to terrorizing the fish again, Lorenzo starts to lean down to kiss my cheek. I pull back and dig into my purse. I hand him a tissue and point at his neck. “Here, you’ve got a little, um, cat drool there.”

  “Drool,” he says slowly. “What is this drool?”

  I tap my lips. “You know, moisture from your mouth.”

  He dabs his neck while repeating the word drool a few more times. Strangely, the word drool sounds sexy when spoken with an Italian accent.

  “Um, I think you missed it,” I say when he crumples the tissue and puts it in his pocket. I pass him another one. He dabs his neck, again in the wrong spot. “No, higher up.” He tries again, this time on the other side of his neck. The side free of feline saliva. I demonstrate on my own neck with another tissue. “Like this.”

  He takes a step toward me and hands me his tissue. “Why don’t you do it?”

  As he positions his neck so that I can reach it, I recoil in horror. Not only does the saliva glisten on his neck in a very disturbing manner, but he’s also wearing body spray. Doggy doo-doo and bubblegum body spray. Is this stuff all the rage in Italy now? Thankfully, he didn’t spray the entire can on himself, but still, even the tiny amount he applied has managed to turn this sexy Italian guy into someone I want to avoid like the plague.

  I grab a wad of tissues out of my purse, hold one up to my nose, and briefly press the rest of them against his neck. Then I release my hand, causing the tissues to fall to the ground.

  For a moment I think about leaving them there. The thought of picking up tissues contaminated by feline saliva horrifies me. But, littering isn’t my thing so I gingerly collect them off the ground using a clean tissue to protect my fingers.

  After a quick inspection of Lorenzo’s neck, I determine that the cat drool has been eradicated. If only I could say the same about his scent.

  While I’m applying hand sanitizer, Mia and Isabelle breeze into the courtyard. They’re looking adorable as usual. Mia is wearing a red sweater and white capri pants that accentuate her curves, while Isabelle’s ruffled sundress highlights her long legs. I’m wearing my usual boring ensemble of jeans and a t-shirt.

  “Ciao,” Lorenzo says, greeting both of them with kisses on their cheeks. I’m amazed neither of them seems phased by his odor. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Didn’t we tell you?” Isabelle says. “Lorenzo offered to drive us to the beach tonight. His cousin owns a restaurant there.”

  Lorenzo smacks his fingers to his mouth. “They make the best seafood pasta. You will love it.”

  As we follow Lorenzo to his car, Isabelle pulls me aside. “You don’t mind, do you? He’s a sweet guy. You guys can get to know each other better. Since we’ll be leaving on Sunday, it will be good for you to have someone to keep you company when we’re gone.”

  “It sounds fun,” I tell her. “Assuming the windows on his car roll down, though.”

  “The windows?”

  “Bubblegum and doggy doo-doo,” I say. “Not a good combination in an enclosed space. Trust me on this one.”

  * * *

  The drive to the beach is a bit nerve-wracking, mostly because Lorenzo turns around periodically to show us videos on his phone of his favorite lucha libre tag teams. Sure, he keeps one hand on the steering wheel at all times, but his eyes spend more time checking out the moves the masked wrestlers are making than on the road. On the plus side, the terror I feel as we come precariously close to crashing into oncoming traffic makes me completely forget about Lorenzo’s body spray.

  When he starts to demonstrate la plancha, a move where one guy lies flat on his back in the ring while another guy jumps down on him—a demonstration that involves reclining his seat while shifting gears—Mia grabs Lorenzo’s phone and threatens to throw it out the window.

  We finally arrive safely at the quaint seaside resort. Mia returns the phone, and we all enjoy a delicious dinner of pasta di frutti di mare—spaghetti with mussels, shrimp, squid, and clams in a spicy red sauce—at Lorenzo’s cousin’s restaurant. After we have some espresso and split a large slice of tiramisu, the girls and I go for a stroll on the beach, leaving Lorenzo and his cousin to continue arguing over who the greatest luchador of all time is.

  As we walk across the soft, white sand, I fill Mia and Isabelle in on the highlights of the first week of my cooking program, including the scare we had the previous day when one of the Silver Foxes misplaced his dentures. Thankfully, they didn’t end up in the lasagna. As I’m describing how we made our own ricotta cheese, Mia interrupts me.

  “How come you haven’t said anything about Preston?” she asks.

  “Sure I have.”

  “Nope, you haven’t uttered his name once in the past twenty minutes. He’s your cooking partner. You’d think he’d come up once in one of your anecdotes.” She bumps me with her shoulder. “I think you’re deliberately not talking about him.”

  I stop and stare at her. “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, remember how you sent those texts to me and Isabelle a couple of nights ago after you had one too many glasses of wine?”

  Isabelle snorts. “They were hysterical. Let’s see, how did they go?” She pulls out her phone and starts reading them off.

  Preston smells like pine trees.

  Preston doesn’t smell like dog doo-doo and bubblegum.

  I don’t like dog doo-doo and bubblegum.

  Wait, I like bubblegum, but only grape flavor.

  Preston smells like an old leather coat.

  Isabelle slaps her legs and chortles. “Wait, this is my favorite one—‘I want to wrap Preston in grape bubblegum and snuggle with him.’”

  I grab her phone and press the delete button while she and Mia continue to laugh.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have had that third glass of wine, especially on an empty stomach,” I say. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Isabelle puts her hands on my shoulders. “That was your subconscious talking. It means something. Now spill.”

  “Well, he is cute and…” My voice trails off as I think about how closely he stood next to me while I strained curdled milk through cheesecloth to make ricotta cheese.

  “And what?” Isabelle prompts.

  “He smells like pine trees and leather,” I say with a smile.

  “Pine trees and leather are nice,” she says.

  “They are, but that’s all he has going for him.”

  “Are you sure?” Mia asks as she plops down on the sand.

  I sit next to her and ponder the question. “Well, he is really good with the Silver Foxes. He’s very respectful and patient with them. Even with Mabel.”

  “She’s the crotchety lady with the cane, right?” Mia asks.

  “Yeah. Preston told me that she reminds him of his grandmother.”

  “So, that’s a point in his favor,” Isabelle says. “He treats senior citizens well. What else?”

  I shrug. “That’s it, really. Most of the time he gets on my nerves with his constant mini-lectures on Italian food an
d Roman history. So boring. Just yesterday, he droned on for ten minutes about the chemical properties of yeast.”

  Isabelle cocks her head to one side. “Pot calling the kettle black.”

  I look indignant. “Me? I’m nothing like Preston.”

  “Oh, I think you’re an awful lot like Preston. Who was the one who spent most of dinner telling us all about how Roman gladiator bouts were originally part of funerary rites?”

  I run my fingers through my hair. “Sorry. That must have been really boring.”

  “Not at all,” Mia says. “It was interesting. I think you would have made a great history professor. The two of you actually have a lot in common—you both love history.”

  “Well, it’s not like I can tell him that, can I?” I chew on my bottom lip for a moment. “He thinks I’m a manicurist who likes sci-fi. Thankfully, he hasn’t asked me any in-depth questions about either of those topics. I’d be caught out in seconds.”

  “Maybe I should give you a crash course in Star Wars,” Mia offers.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” I say with a smile. “I think I’ll just change the subject if it comes up.” I look at my hands. “But I might go get a manicure next week.”

  “You only have three weeks left of the course, right?” Isabelle asks.

  I nod.

  “So just enjoy your time with him. Nothing serious has to happen. He might be someone to have fun with at night and on the weekends. Although there’s always Lorenzo.”

  “Lorenzo is sweet,” I say.

  “Pretty easy on the eyes too,” Mia says.

  “I can’t disagree with that. But there’s no spark. Not to mention that horrible body spray he’s wearing now.”

  “Well, then, if there’s no spark, I agree with Isabelle,” Mia says. “Give Preston a chance.”

  “I guess,” I say. “But I have to make sure he never finds out my last name.”

  “Why’s that?” Mia asks.

  “Well, it’s not very common. How many Maarschalkerweerds do you know? My father was a well-known ancient history professor. Preston is sure to know of him and his work. He probably has all of his books too.” I shiver in the cool breeze and wrap my arms around me. “Fortunately, my name was too long to fit on the name badge, so the lady at the registration used my middle name instead. Preston only knows me as Ginny Morgan and I plan on keeping it that way.”

  I stand and brush sand off my jeans. “We should probably head back before Lorenzo and his cousin decide to catch a plane to Mexico City and start their own lucha libre tag team.”

  “Oh, by the way,” Mia says as we walk back to the restaurant. “I totally get what you mean about doggy doo-doo and bubblegum after sitting next to Lorenzo at dinner. It gets a bit overpowering after a while.”

  6

  Tweed Jackets

  The rest of the weekend was fabulous. On Saturday, the girls and I took the train to Bologna to check out the archaeological museum. While they loved the display of an Egyptian cat mummy, their eyes glazed over when I explained how the Romans shaped bronze using clay forms. It made me almost wish that Preston had joined us. He would have understood why I found old coins, spoons, and glass tableware so fascinating.

  The girls had a much better time on Sunday when Lorenzo took us to Venice for the day. It was a much more pleasant drive this time around as Mia confiscated his phone before he started the car. On the way we stopped at Porto Corsini where the cruise ships dock. Then we headed to the more upscale Marina di Ravenna. Isabelle was in awe of all the sailboats moored there. We chatted for a while with some of the crew of the larger boats who gave Isabelle tips on what to expect when she started her job on the river cruise boat in Germany. We capped off the day back at Lorenzo’s cousin’s restaurant with another delicious dinner and discussion of wrestling.

  By the time Monday morning rolled around, I was exhausted and already missing the girls. One of the great things about travel is meeting wonderful people. One of the worst things is saying goodbye to them.

  After three cups of coffee, I shuffle into the kitchen annex.

  “Is everyone excited for week two of class?” Maria asks cheerfully.

  The Silver Foxes let out a resounding cheer.

  I groan.

  “Today, we’re going to make tortelloni burro e salvia,” Maria says. “Let’s see how everyone’s Italian is. Who knows what that means in English?”

  My coffee finally kicks in, and I raise my hand. I know the answer to this one.

  Maria points at me.

  “Tortellini,” I say, mentally patting myself on my back.

  “Good,” Maria says. “Tortelloni means tortellini in English. They’re spelled almost identically. But what does burro e salvia mean?”

  Okay, maybe I didn’t have enough coffee after all because I don’t have a clue. “Uh, maybe you should let someone else have a chance.”

  Preston nudges me. “Go on. You’ve got this.”

  “I do?”

  He nods, so I take a stab. “Um, tortellini made with salivating burros?”

  Maria laughs. “Not exactly, but good try. Fortunately, there won’t be any burros, salivating or otherwise, in our dish today.” She holds up some herbs. “Salvia means sage and burro means butter. We’ll be sautéing ricotta-stuffed tortellini in sage butter.”

  While she passes out laminated recipe cards, Preston grins. “Salivating burros. Where exactly did you say you studied Italian?”

  “You should be giving me points for creativity.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of deducting points.”

  I playfully punch him in the arm. “Keep it up and you’re on dish-washing duty.”

  Maria walks back to the front. “Let’s start with making the pasta dough. This should be simple for you now. You had a lot of practice with this last week. Like riding a tricycle. Is that the expression? Riding a tricycle?”

  One of the Silver Foxes corrects her. “Bicycle, not tricycle.”

  “Ah, yes. Riding a bicycle. Learning another language isn’t easy, is it?”

  The class murmurs their agreement.

  “Ginny understands this,” Maria says. “Salivating burros instead of sage butter. Like my tricycle and bicycle, no?”

  My face grows warm as the Silver Foxes look at me and chuckle.

  Preston starts to say something to me, but I put my fingers on his lips. “Not another word. Let’s focus on the pasta.”

  He nods, then starts to measure out the flour and salt onto a marble cutting board. I shape the mixture into a mound, then dig a well in the center of it. Preston cracks eggs into the well. Using a fork, I beat the eggs, gradually mixing in flour from the sides of the well until a soft dough forms.

  “How was your weekend?” Preston asks.

  “Great. Lorenzo took us to Venice on Sunday. Did you know that it’s only about two and half hours away from here?”

  “Lorenzo?”

  “Uh-huh. He rented the apartment to Mia and Isabelle. Anyway, did you know that Venice came into being after the fall of the Roman Empire? The original population of Venice was made up of refugees from the mainland who were fleeing from Germanic and Hun invaders. And, this is the part that’s really fascinating.” I wave the fork in the air for emphasis. “There were only two to three miles of water separating Venice from the mainland, but that was enough to keep them isolated from the rest of Italy, living in relative peace for 1400 years.”

  “They were isolated for 1400 years by water. Was that one of Lorenzo’s pickup lines?”

  “Pickup lines?”

  “You know, like the guy in the bar who tried to schmooze you with that line about Roman sanitation.” He fiddles with the rolling pin. “But I’m sure it didn’t work because you said that you don’t like history nerds.”

  “I never said that.”

  “I should start tape recording you. You said, and I quote, ‘I don’t go for history buffs.”

  “See, just like I told you. I didn’t
say that I don’t go for history nerds, I said history buffs.”

  “What’s the difference between a history buff and a history nerd?”

  “What kind of tweed jacket they wear.”

  “I wear a tweed jacket.”

  “Exactly.” I set the fork aside and start to knead the dough.

  “Exactly what?”

  “Could you sprinkle more flour on the cutting board?”

  “I will after you answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “What did you mean about my tweed jacket?”

  I tap the edge of the cutting board. “Flour right there, please.”

  I look up and see Preston’s blue eyes twinkling. “You want more flour?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Here you go,” he says, tossing some flour at me.

  I put my hands to my face to wipe it off, but instead get sticky dough all over me.

  “You,” I say threateningly, trying to grab the bag of flour from him.

  He laughs and darts around to the opposite side of the workstation. “Excuse me, ladies,” he says to Mabel and Loretta as he scoots past them. He tosses more flour at me. I chase him around in a circle, pausing long enough to grab Mabel and Loretta’s flour. I throw some at Preston. He throws more at me.

  By this point, I’m laughing so hard that I’m crying. As I raise my hand to wipe the tears off my face, I knock a bowl of eggs over. I manage to right the bowl, but not before three of the eggs land on the ground.

  “Watch out,” I say to Preston, but my warning comes too late.

  He tries to skid to a stop, but slips and ends up on his back on the floor. I rush over to help him, but trip over Mabel’s cane, landing on top of him, just like they do in lucha libre.

  I lay there for a moment, my head resting on his chest. His strong, muscular chest. How did a professor end up with these muscles? I can hear his heart beating. Or is that my heart?