The Supreme Macaroni Company

by Adriana Trigiani

  I was fully American. My aesthetic roots were in the land of my heritage, but I didn’t see myself as an Italian wife. And what is an Italian wife exactly? All I knew came from my limited observations. During my travels in Italy, the Italian wives seemed practical and a little removed. There appeared in them a resignation to the order and roles established in life as it had been for generations. How was I going to continue to be the woman I was, split between these two cultures, who had little in common when it came to a woman’s ambition and drive? I was in for it. What, I didn’t know. But I loved Gianluca and figured it had to go my way. This is also the hallmark of an American sensibility. Things naturally work out for the best when the intention is clear. Or do they?

  A wave of concern tore through me, and I wasn’t sure why. Were these bridal jitters? Did I feel rushed by the holidays and now the New Year? Should I call my mother and tell her that February 14 was coming too soon? I had shoes to design. Instead of giving in to the panic, I took a deep breath. I picked up the pan of chestnuts that only I would eat and followed Gianluca back inside. I wanted to be near him. I had more questions, but I knew him well enough to know that some things would have to wait.

  5

  I flipped the 2010 Our Lady of Fatima calendar to the next to last day of the year. I only had two days left to say that I was getting married next year. The countdown was real after January 1, 2011 and so was the knot in my stomach.

  I washed my hands at the workstation sink, drying them carefully. I pinned the fabric for my wedding shoes to the thin pattern paper. I stood back and squinted at my work. It was harder to create a pair of wedding shoes for me than any customer that came before. All I could see were the flaws.

  Alfred pushed the shop door open. He carried, as he always had, all three metropolitan newspapers. You could describe a person by the paper they read in New York City. Gabriel was strictly a Page Six junkie, so he read the New York Post, which provided the most hilarious wallpaper in our powder room, ripped from the headlines. I liked the New York Times because I liked my news serious. My brother Alfred was a Daily News guy—he liked the sports and business section. He also read the Wall Street Journal on the commute, which Gabriel and I never read. It was about a world so foreign to us we needed a translator. I would mourn the end of newspapers as I would all of the institutions of life as a New Yorker. It seemed everything was changing—no more corner candy stores, bookshops, or Mom and Pop restaurants. More changes I tried to put out of my mind.

  Alfred hung his coat on the hook.

  “I need the file for supplies. I’m heading to midtown to place some orders.”

  “They’re on the desk.”

  Alfred thumbed through the file folders. “What are we going to do about Charlie?”

  “We have to do something, or our sister is going to jump out her window in Montclair. Tess is a nervous wreck. I called her and she’s panicking about college. The girls are nine and ten. I told her she had time. But I guess that’s what happens when you have children.”

  “Someday you’ll find out,” Alfred assured me.

  “Charlie needs a job. Can we help him?”

  “He was a manager at the alarm company.” Alfred poured himself a cup of coffee. “He may not want to work with us. Besides, he’s not going to take the first thing that comes along. He already turned his father down. Wanted Charlie to come into the landscaping business.”

  I don’t know how long I was standing there pondering Charlie’s future, while Alfred gathered the files, when my mother blew into the shop carrying two cups of coffee and a small pastry to share. If we weren’t in pre-wedding deprivation/fit-in-the-dress mode, she would have brought me my own half dozen.

  “Oh, my son and daughter hard at work. Alfred, I only have one cream puff.”

  “That’s all right, Ma, I’m on Lipitor.”

  “When did you get high cholesterol?”

  “When I turned forty. Remember? You threw me a party.”

  “Dear God, what’s to become of us?”

  “We become vegetarians and give up pasta.” I shrugged.

  “No, I mean now that I have a son who’s forty.”

  “Ladies, I have a meeting in midtown with a button salesman. Not the one you dated back in the day, Val.”

  “He was a real bargain. If you notice, I only have zippers on my clothes now.”

  “It might have been painful, but you learned from the experience. I choose to be grateful to that button salesman. He kept you off the front burner so you’d be ready to cook with Gianluca,” my mother said as Alfred rolled his eyes.

  “No, Ma, you’re confusing the button salesman with Roman Falconi, the chef.”

  “How’s he doing?” my mother asked innocently.

  “He’s down to one and a half stars.”

  Alfred gave Mom a kiss on the cheek and left with the files.

  Mom was dressed for shopping in a perfect ensemble for trying on clothes. She wore a simple, long-sleeved microfiber dress in navy blue stripes with matching tights and suede shooties. The wool cape over the dress was easy to get in and out of. The dress itself was easy to unzip, and underneath, she was cinched in by spandex shapewear that was so tight it dropped her down half a size if she didn’t exhale. Perched on her head were her signature Jackie O sunglasses. Mom wears them inside stores so the saleslady can’t read her mood. My mother does not appreciate any input from sales professionals. She feels she knows best when it comes to her own body and the message her body sends in clothes.

  “I went to Kleinfeld’s with your sisters,” Mom announced.

  “Anything interesting?”

  “A few styles. Let me just say that planning a wedding that’s taking place in six weeks is a physical, mental, and emotional impossibility. That said, we’re making it happen. I’m fine until the thirty-first of December. When it’s officially 2011, I’ll kill myself.”

  “Mom.”

  “I know, despite appearances to the contrary, I’m keeping a tight grip on my emotions. Your father is no help whatsoever. He thinks the timing is nothing. He told me to cut corners! I don’t do that. You’d think he would’ve noticed that after all these years. Leave the food to Carol and the invitations to e-mail. Can you imagine? You’d be the first woman in our family who did not have engraved invitations.”

  “We don’t need engraved invitations.”

  “Queen Elizabeth would never have a formal event without an engraved invitation.”

  “Oh, right. How many times have we been invited to Buckingham Palace?”

  “Never. But we can poach from the royal template. Etiquette is not dead, and I don’t want your wedding to be the thing that kills it. Good manners never go out of style. Years from now, you’ll want a permanent record of your wedding. An invitation is the bride’s Dead Sea scroll at the bottom of her hope chest. An invitation is historical proof. We must have an engraved invitation. Besides, we have an intergenerational conundrum. Even if I agreed to send the wedding invitations via e-mail, and I’m not, what about people like Aunt Feen who have no Internet access?”

  “Hire a yodeler.”

  Mom ignored me. “I’ll have the invitations printed up. You don’t even have to look at them. I want the Youngstown cousins to have proper invitations. When Chrissy Pipino got married, she had a fold-out card with tissue, and if you remember, it was gold-leafed. She even had a pop-up angel. You yanked a satin ribbon and the little cherub went over and down like a windshield wiper. We don’t have time for a pop-up, but we will have our version of Caravaggio angels. The invites will be addressed with Olde English calligraphy. It costs a fortune, but I don’t want to look cheap.”

  “They won’t care.”

  When I disagree with my mother, she changes topics. “I approved the raw bar. Malpeque oysters. The seafood station with shrimp, lobster, and crab. Oh, and they added in a crepe guy s
ince Jaclyn got married. He fills them with your choice of savory or sweet. Can you stand it? Oh, and I agreed to a risotto bar. Can you imagine? Somebody’s biceps will be getting a workout stirring the rice. And, hola! we’re having a make-your-own-quesadilla stand, mostly for our Latina cousins. I’m hoping that Roberta will come up from Argentina.”

  “Mom, she’s very busy at the factory making our shoes.”

  “I know, but she’s your business partner, and she’s family. You know how I like to have everyone important to us at a wedding. Don’t worry about it. I’ll e-mail her.”

  “Did Pamela go with you to try on dresses?”

  “Gave us fifteen minutes.”

  “Really.”

  “Said she had things to do. What could she possibly have scheduled during a holiday week?”

  “She leads a Zumba class in Sea Girt.”

  “Oh, big deal. Call in a substitute.”

  “Did she like the dresses?”

  “She can fit into absolutely anything. Her body is a sample size. She’s so small she could wear your pants from fourth grade.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The point is: she’s tiny. But let’s face it, people that thin have brain fog, they can’t focus. A couple of meatballs, and she’d be Albert Einstein. She’s so wishy-washy. I want to shake her sometimes. Have an opinion, would you, please?”

  “Ma, the meek inherit the earth.”

  “Well, then, she’s coming into some prime oceanfront real estate. Jaclyn found a couple of gorgeous gowns for you to try. A Christos and a Reem Acra—”

  “I’m not going shopping. I found the perfect dress. Ma, I love your wedding gown.”

  “You would.”

  “I’m wearing your gown. So stop looking. Don’t put anything on hold. Don’t leave bridal magazines around here with Post-its on dresses you like. I won’t look. I won’t surf the net. I have my dress.”

  “I just don’t understand you, Valentine. We live in the fashion mecca of the planet. We could go to Kleinfeld’s and cut a deal, or Saks and get a custom gown, and you want to wear my old thing. For Godsakes, I ran into Diane von Fürstenberg at Dag’s, and she was so nice. Her store is around the corner. I want to march right over there and see if she has wedding gowns. You could wear a brand-new D.V.F. Instead you want to wear my old D.U.D. Why, if you could wear something new, would you ever wear something old?”

  “Tradition.”

  “You want something old? You already have it. My Lady Carlyle china. It’s in a crate in my garage. I have the complete service for twelve. Finger bowls. Cheese plate with lid. I even have the soup tureen. Please, let’s go to Vera Wang and get you something courant.”

  “I don’t want courant. I want to wear your dress.”

  “How did this happen under my watch? You’re a . . . a . . . hippie. You know, all those girls my age”—my mother choked, then coughed at the mention of age—“you know who I’m referring to, people like my friend Jan Lampe, who lived and died by any lyric Joni Mitchell put out. Almost changed her name to Blue once. Blue Lampe. Imagine that. Anyhow, Jan would wear a secondhand schmatte on her wedding day and be happy with it. The peasant look.”

  “I like the peasant look.”

  “Dear God, our people fled Italy to get away from the peasant look. Who in their right mind wants to look poor? We emigrated to escape those patchwork prints, feedsack paisleys, those horrifying embroidered blouses. You scare me. You’re just like Jan.”

  “Mom, it’s not about the dress.”

  “Are you sure you’re my daughter?”

  “I’m going to make a beautiful pair of new shoes. I’ll have your gown restored. The lace is still beautiful.”

  “It came from Florence. Mom picked it up on a buying trip.”

  “I’ll probably do a couple of fresh accents to reinvent it a little bit. By the time I’m done with your old schmatte, you’ll love it.”

  “You’re my last daughter to marry. I wanted something more for you than a redone Halloween costume.”

  “Nobody wore it as a Halloween costume.”

  “Tess wanted to be Princess Diana. Remember?”

  “It didn’t happen. We went as a box of crayons.”

  “Whatever! It doesn’t matter! You’re wearing my old dress. This doesn’t feel like the right choice, the fashionable choice. It feels like a real crappy do-over.”

  “Ma, look at it this way. It gives you more time for you to shop for your dress.”

  “Indulge me. Will you please think about wearing a veil?”

  “I’m not a veil type.”

  “But they’re so festive and flowy. Don’t you want a little movement around the face?”

  “I’ll have movement around my face. I get a tic when I get nervous. Remember? Besides, veils have no purpose. I have nothing to hide. Gianluca’s already seen my nose, and evidently he likes it.”

  “Are you going to hold it against me for the rest of your life that I brought you for that consultation years ago?”

  “You took Tess for the nose job. I had the acne. You took me to a dermatologist.”

  “There’s oil on your dad’s side of the family.”

  “Right. The plastic surgeon said my nose was fine. Remember?”

  “And your nose is fine. You inherited my old nose, and I just wanted to make sure you could live ninety years with it. It suits you. But I’d still like you to wear a traditional veil.”

  “Ma, women wore veils a thousand years ago to hide from the man they’d never met and were forced to marry. I chose Gianluca.”

  “Sure you did. And we like him, honey. We will love him as soon as the ring is on your hand.”

  I modeled the diamond. “This doesn’t count?”

  “Not quite. An engagement ring is all well and good, but the deal isn’t a deal until you place a thin platinum band next to it, locking the future into place with a 24-K LoJack. Once you have the blessed band, you’re golden.”

  “Did you talk to Father Drake at Queen of Martyrs?”

  “I left him a message. God, I wish we were better Catholics and had some decent connections. If we did, we could climb up the food chain for an officiante. Our monsignor retired, and the one bishop we knew left for Scranton to live with his sister at the Mercy Home. He’s a hundred and fifty years old if he’s a day. I just couldn’t ask him to travel to marry you. It might kill him. I suppose we could’ve done it on-site at Leonard’s, but I don’t like getting a judge to officiate. It seems tacky to take your vows standing in front of the ziti station. Frankly, those off-site weddings feel one level above processing a parking ticket. Judge Jane Marum Roush volunteered to come up from Virginia—”

  “You called a judge in Virginia?”

  “E-mail. Hey, we’re in crunch time. I needed a plan B. When your back is against the wall, you have to reach out to anyone and everyone you know. If I taught you anything—”

  “It’s who you know.”

  “Right. Anyhow, Jane went to school with Alfred, but I told her to put a hold on the bus ticket. Remember her? She’s the girl who got hammered on sangria at Alfred’s graduation party and did cartwheels to the ‘Thong Song.’ I can’t believe she’s a judge! Lucky for her that she came up before the Internet. Oh, here’s the number at the rectory. Call him to set up your pre-Cana.”

  “We have to do pre-Cana?”

  “You can’t get married in church without it. Besides, it’s good for you. A little retreat with other couples who are going through what you’re going through. Daddy and I led the discussion one time. We weren’t asked back, because, well, we’re not sure. Maybe because we got into a spat about home budgets during the financial portion. You know your father, he can be tight with the blades.”

  “Blades?”

  “The cash. The green. You’ll love pre-Cana . . . a spiritua
l discussion about the solemnity of the occasion and practical advice about day-to-day living with one another. That’s not going to hurt you.”

  “If we survive it.”

  “I’m sure you and Gianluca have discussed all the big issues, and this is good for the small ones. Oh, he’ll need his annulment paperwork.”

  “He carries it on his person like a passport.”

  “Do not mistake my anxiety for disapproval. I am thrilled you’re getting married. I’m so happy for you. I want to make your life easier, not harder. I want you to enjoy this special day. I really do.”

  “Then can you be a little happy that I’m wearing your dress?”

  “Not really. Years ago I had a yen to cut it up and make doilies, and now I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  “But this gown is blessed.”

  “No, honey, I had it historically cleaned and hermetically sealed in plastic, but not blessed.”

  “I mean, it’s lucky. Look at the good fortune you and Dad have enjoyed. You’ve really done very well.”

  Her eyes misted with tears. “Forty-one years. We were broke, then we got cocky, we got cocky and Daddy strayed, then Daddy repented and returned, then I went whack-a-doodle, then I calmed down, and then Daddy got the prostate, and ever since, we’ve been good.”

  “It helped when he took the estrogen therapy. I think he understood you better.”

  “Understood me? He practically became me.”

  “Ma, when did you go whack-a-doodle?”

  “Don’t you remember my yoga retreat in the Catskills?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “You were in college. I was turning thirty-seven—”

  “Forty-eight.”

  “Whatever. Don’t correct me. I don’t need my children pointing out my flaws. I’m bad with math.”

  “Only when it comes to your age.”

  Mom ignored me. “Well, I went to a couple of yoga classes, then a prayer meeting in a sweat lodge outside of Albany. I got impetigo, came home, and had to soak my foot in white vinegar for a month. My one journey to enlightenment gave me a rash. Go figure.