The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery

by Rosie Genova

  The words were barely out of my brother’s mouth before my mother leapt from her seat. “I knew it!” she shrieked. “Oh, darlings, I couldn’t be happier.” As she captured the two of them in her maternal grip, Sofia grinned at me over my mother’s shoulder.

  “I’m so happy for you guys!” I said a shade too loudly, but it was my way of acting surprised.

  “Thank God,” my grandmother said, her hands clasped as though in prayer. “And now you’re together, as it should be.”

  I noticed that Nonna uttered those last words as a commandment. She took Danny’s face in her hands and kissed his cheeks, then did the same for Sofia. Through it all, my dad sat wearing a dazed smile.

  “So, Grandpa Frank?” I asked him. “What do you think of this news?”

  “Ah, honey, it’s wonderful,” he said, turning to me. “A baby’s just what we need around here. In fact—” He stopped and dug a paper from his back pocket and flattened it. A racing form. “Hah!” he said, slapping his palm down on the paper. “I knew it—there’s a horse running at Monmouth named Bambino.” He rolled the paper up and pointed it at me. “It’s a sign, I tell ya.” He reached across the table and squeezed Sofia’s hand. “How’re you feeling, baby?”

  “Pretty good most of the time,” Sofia said. “But I’m a little queasy right now.”

  “Ugh, sorry you’re still sick,” I said. “Can I pour you some water?”

  But Sofia’s eyes widened, and too late I realized what I’d said. Danny’s eyes bored into mine and I froze in my seat.

  My mother, who’d somehow missed the silent exchange, started listing various cures for morning sickness. “A nice dry biscotto in the morning, hon. Before you even get out of bed.”

  “Never mind that, Nicolina,” Nonna said. “Some fresh mint is what she needs. We have some right in the garden.”

  “Oh, I heard that works,” I said. “I’ll go get some.” I jumped up from my chair, almost knocking it over in my haste to get out of that room. I scurried out the back door and crossed the parking lot in record time. But it wasn’t long before my brother found me. I bent over the mint, studying each leaf in a lame attempt to pretend I didn’t know he was there.

  “Hey, Vic?” I could hear the edge in his voice. “What did you mean back there?”

  “What do you mean what did I mean?” Stalling for time, I kept my back to him and continued picking leaves.

  “Look at me,” my brother barked. “You know what I’m talking about. You told Sofia you were sorry she was still sick. You knew, didn’t you? You knew she was pregnant.”

  I straightened up and sighed. “Yes, Dan, I knew.”

  “Before I did.” He crossed his arms and glared at me, his mouth tightened in a grim line.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “It’s not, huh? It’s not you two keeping stuff behind my back? Right.” He turned quickly and started back to the house.

  “Danny, wait. Let me explain, okay?” I called after him. But he just kept walking.

  • • •

  When I got back to my cottage at the end of the day, I was still thinking about the confrontation with my brother. And there was only one thing that would make me feel better: the ocean. I threw on my shorts and headed outside. The beach at six o’clock was my favorite time. Day-trippers had long gone home, and the renters were usually packing up their things. Here and there a few lone couples, mostly older year-rounders, were sitting with towels wrapped around their legs, their noses in paperbacks, maybe one of them even a Bernardo Vitali mystery.

  I dragged my beach chair close to the water’s edge, stretched my legs out in front of me, and tipped my head back to soak up the last rays of sun. And to think. Remembering my conversation with Tim about Kate and Dr. C., I thought about the ties of family. How they bound us and comforted us but sometimes chafed. When I looked in the mirror, I saw an independent woman with the first faint lines of age marking her face. But inside I was still Danny’s kid sister and Frank and Nic’s little girl. Not to mention Nonna’s headstrong granddaughter. Well, Cal had said she and I were alike. I shook my head. How can you care about people so much and yet want to escape them at the same time?

  I loved that we were all together at the restaurant this morning, celebrating the baby, but I hated the friction with my brother. He’s right to be angry, the voice of my conscience said. He should have been the first person to know. I trailed my fingers in the wet sand, suddenly aware of a shadow hovering over me. A literal one. When I opened my eyes, my brother was standing next to my chair.

  “Thought I’d find you down here,” he said, and plopped down next to my chair. In a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, he was Brother Danny, as opposed to Cop Danny, which came as a relief.

  “You know me well, brother.” I shaded my eyes and looked into his face. “You still mad at me?”

  He grinned and shook his head. “I’m not allowed to be.” He scooped handfuls of wet sand, piling them idly while he spoke. “The minute we got home, my wife ripped me a new one. Said if I should be mad at anybody, it should be her, not you.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “You had a right to be mad.”

  He shook his head, still scooping sand. “No. I should’ve let you explain. She told me how it happened. That you caught her throwing up.”

  “You have no idea how I nagged her to tell you, Danny.”

  “Oh, I think I do. Anyway, I’m in no mood to be mad at anybody.” His face brightened, his grin growing wider. “Do you believe I’m gonna be a father?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. But it’s Frank as a grandfather that’s really got my head spinning. He’s probably out buying a whole bunch of lottery tickets and laying bets on Bambino right now. And setting up a pool on the birthdate and the baby’s weight.”

  Danny threw back his head and laughed; it was a sound that did my heart good. “So, you’re back home, I assume,” I said.

  He nodded. “Where I belong. And where I plan to stay. From here on out, we work out our problems like grown-ups.”

  “That’s good to hear. And anytime you guys need time alone, be sure to call Aunt Victoria to babysit.”

  “I’m holdin’ you to that,” he said, pointing a finger at me. He paused, still piling sand. “Hey, Vic?” he asked. “Were you ever so happy that you felt like you didn’t deserve it?”

  “Hell, no!” I said. “I deserve every millisecond of happiness that comes my way. I figure I earned it.”

  “Well, that’s true.” Danny said. “And I want you to be happy.”

  “Funny. You’re the second man who’s said that to me of late.”

  “Tim?” he asked without looking at me.

  “The very one.” I cupped some wet sand and dribbled it on top of Danny’s pile.

  “Has it been okay working with him?”

  “It’s been fine. You know he’s seeing somebody, right?”

  He nodded. “The redhead?”

  “Yup. She’s actually nice, despite her unfortunate hair color.”

  “Maybe.” His face tightened. “But are you sure—?”

  I held up my hand to stave off the rest of the question. “Yes, I’m sure. Whatever you were going to ask me, I’m sure.”

  “Okay,” He grinned again, his face taking on a dreamy look. “A baby,” he said, shaking his head. “Still gettin’ my mind around it.”

  “La famiglia,” I said softly.

  “La famiglia,” he agreed.

  I squinted into my brother’s face; his eyes were suspiciously bright. “Hey, Mr. Tough Guy, is that a tear I see?”

  He stood up, brushing the sand from his hands. “Nah. Sun’s in my eyes.” He gripped my shoulder and squeezed. “Later, sis.”

  “Later, bro,” I said to his retreating back, and wiped away a small tear of my own.

  Recipes from the Italian Kitchen

  There are many variations on Italian Wedding Soup, but the one element they all share is polpetti, or tiny, flavorful meatball
s. The meatball recipe here is based upon my mom’s, and one I have been using my whole adult life—the secret is the blend of ground meats. (If you can’t find the meat blend prepackaged at your grocery store, ask the butcher to prepare it for you.) While many self-respecting Italians wouldn’t dream of mixing meatballs with anything but their own two hands, I prefer the food processor for this messy job. If you don’t have homemade chicken stock on hand, a good quality prepared stock is fine for the soup. If escarole is not to your taste, use spinach, Swiss chard, or any other green you like. This recipe makes a large batch. I generally freeze half the meatballs and cut the soup recipe in half, but if you have a big family, go for it.

  Nonna’s Famous Italian Wedding Soup

  For the meatballs:

  1-2 small cloves garlic, according to taste

  ¹⁄³ cup chopped fresh parsley leaves

  1/2 pound ground beef

  1/2 pound ground pork

  1/2 pound ground veal

  1/2 cup flavored Italian bread crumbs

  1/2 cup freshly grated Pecorino Romano cheese

  1/4 cup milk

  1 large egg, lightly beaten

  1 teaspoon salt

  1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  For the soup:

  2 tablespoons good-quality olive oil

  1 cup finely chopped yellow onion

  1 cup diced carrots (3 carrots), cut into 1/4 inch pieces

  3/4 cup diced celery (2 stalks), cut into 1/4 inch pieces

  1/2 cup dry white wine

  16 cups homemade chicken stock or four 32-ounce containers of good-quality prepared broth

  2 cups small pasta, such as orzo or ditalini

  2 ounces escarole, washed well and torn into bite-sized pieces

  1. Preheat the oven to 350° degrees F.

  2. With the food processor running, drop the peeled garlic cloves and parsley through the feed tube, and process until finely minced. Scrape down the processor. To the parsley-and-garlic mixture add the ground meats, bread crumbs, cheese, milk, egg, salt, and pepper. Pulse until all ingredients are well combined, scraping down the bowl once. With a melon baller or small cookie scoop, drop meatballs of about one inch in diameter onto a sheet pan lined with parchment paper. (You should have about 60 meatballs. Roll them in your palms to smooth them, if you wish, but they don’t have to be perfect.) Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until cooked through and lightly browned. Set aside.

  3. In the meantime, make the soup by heating the olive oil over medium-low heat in a large heavy-bottomed soup pot. Add the onion, carrots, and celery and sauté until softened, 5 to 6 minutes, stirring occasionally. Stir the wine into the vegetables; add the chicken stock and bring to a boil. Add the pasta to the simmering broth and cook for 6 to 8 minutes, until the pasta is tender. Add the meatballs to the soup and simmer for 1 minute. Taste, and add salt and pepper as needed. Stir in the escarole and cook for 1 to 2 minutes, until it is just wilted. Ladle into soup bowls and sprinkle each serving with extra grated cheese.

  Even Vic knows that the secret to a good ragu (tomato sauce with meat) is a long, slow simmer, either on top of the stove or slow-cooked in the oven. This recipe makes a deeply flavored sauce, even with the cheapest cuts of beef. It freezes well, and is best served over sturdy pastas such as rigatoni.

  Rosie’s Easy Beef Ragu

  1 to 11/2 lbs. beef chuck, cut into large cubes (or precut beef for stew)

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  Salt and pepper to taste

  2–3 large cloves garlic, roughly chopped

  2 tablespoons tomato paste

  1/4 cup full-bodied red wine

  1 28-ounce can imported chopped tomatoes

  1 28-ounce can imported strained tomatoes or tomato puree

  2–3 teaspoons salt

  6–8 large basil leaves, snipped into small pieces

  2 tablespoons fresh parsley, roughly chopped (frozen herbs may be substituted for fresh)

  1. Press cubed beef dry with paper towels, then put into a large bowl with the olive oil and mix until all the meat is coated. Lightly season with salt and pepper.

  2. Coat a heavy-bottomed 4-quart pan with cooking spray. Brown the beef in batches over medium-high heat and set aside. Pour off excess fat, if you wish.

  3. Lower the heat to medium, and cook the garlic quickly in beef fat. Add the tomato paste and red wine and deglaze pan. Stir thoroughly to pick up all the browned bits. When the mixture reaches a high simmer, add tomatoes, salt and pepper, and fresh herbs.

  4. Put the meat and any juices back into the pot. Bring sauce to a slow boil, about 10 minutes.

  5. Reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer the sauce on the lowest heat for 21/2 to 3 hours, or until the beef is fork tender. Stir occasionally. (For oven cooking, set the temperature to 275° F. Make sure you use an oven-proof pot, and let the sauce come to a boil on top of the stove first. Set on the middle rack in the oven for 21/2 to 3 hours. Check the sauce once per hour during cooking to stir and add liquid as needed.)

  Though Nonna makes these for a wedding, in our house this cookie is a Christmas staple. (The smell when they are cooking is heavenly!) My own grandmother, Maria Genova, made these regularly, and my aunt Marie Genova Abate provided the recipe here. For some, anise is an acquired taste, so if you don’t like that licorice flavor, vanilla or almond extract may be substituted. This recipe makes about three dozen cookies.

  Nonna’s Ricotta Cookies

  2 cups flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  1 cup sugar

  1/2 cup butter (do not substitute)

  2 eggs

  1–2 teaspoons of anise extract

  1 cup fresh ricotta cheese

  For topping:

  confectioner’s sugar

  nonpareils or colored sugars

  1. Preheat the oven to 350° F. Sift the flour, baking powder, and salt in a bowl and set aside.

  2. In a larger bowl or stand mixer, cream the butter and sugar until fluffy. Add the eggs and anise extract.

  3. Add the dry ingredients and ricotta alternately to the butter mixture until well blended.

  4. Drop by rounded teaspoonfuls, two inches apart, on parchment-covered cookie sheets, and bake for 10 to 12 minutes. Do not overbake; the bottoms should be a light golden brown.

  5. Let cool, and top with confectioner’s sugar glaze and nonpareils or colored sugars.

  Read on for a sneak peek at the next Italian Kitchen Mystery,

  A Dish Best Served Cold

  Coming in fall 2015 from Obsidian.

  A mingled blast of garlic and alcohol hit me as soon as I opened the back door. The reek was emanating from Pietro Petrocelli, known colloquially as “Stinky Pete.” Naturally, I never called him that to his face (or in front of my grandmother, who knows him from the old country). Pete listed to one side, then the other, blinking his bloodshot eyes and grinning at me with his nearly toothless mouth. Recoiling from the stench of unwashed skin and lack of dental hygiene, I took two steps back into the restaurant kitchen.

  “Uh, hi, Pete. Nonna’s not here at the moment.” I started to close the door, but Pete, who was pretty quick for a drunk, held it fast.

  “It’s La Signorina Scrittrice,” he slurred. “The Lady Writer. How you do, signorina?” He stuck his unshaven face inside the door opening, treating me to another whiff of garlic breath. “Is your papa here?”

  “No,” I said firmly. My dad, Frank, who had a soft spot for Pete, would sometimes give him a glass of homemade wine, but only when my grandmother wasn’t around. Nonna would feed Pete if he was hungry, but she drew the line at liquor.

  “Hokay,” he said with a sigh. “So, maybe, Lady Writer, could you do an old man a favor?”

  “Not if it involves wine.” I gripped the side of the door, trying unsuccessfully to push it closed.

  “C’mon, signorina. I am parched in the heat.” He pressed his free hand against his chest. “I have a great th
irst.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” I said. “You can have some water. And if you’re hungry, I’ll give you a panini. But that’s it. And then you have to go.”

  He finally let go of the door and shook his head. “It is not for water that I have the thirst. But I will take, how you say, a ‘suh-nack.’”

  “One ‘suh-nack’ coming up. But you have to wait there, okay?” I said, closing the door. I grabbed a roll, threw on some salami and cheese, and wrapped the sandwich in a paper towel.

  When I handed it to him, Pete stuck the sandwich into the pocket of his tattered shirt and winked at me with one droopy eye. “For later,” he whispered. Taking advantage of the open door, he pushed his head inside again; I tried very hard not to inhale as he spoke. “If you give me il vino, I can tell you stories. For your books.” He raised his hand in a scribbling motion to illustrate.

  “I can’t, Pete. It’s not good for you. Nonna won’t let me.”

  “Oh, your grandmother, she is a saint,” he said, clapping his palms together as though in prayer.

  “Uh huh.” She’s a saint, all right. “You need to go, Pete.” I shoved harder against the door.

  He tapped the side of his head. “Me, I know t’ings. Many t’ings I could tell you for your murder books.”

  “I’m sure you could, but you really have to go now.”

  Pete nodded, pulled his head back from the doorway, and patted his breast pocket. “Thank you, signorina. And remember what I said,” he called as he stumbled off. “I have stories to tell.”

  Stories involving the grape, no doubt, but probably little I could use for my “murder books.” I bolted the door behind me and grabbed a handful of basil from the refrigerator, stuck my nose in it, and sniffed deeply.

  “Victoria,” my grandmother called out sharply, “what are you doing to that basil?”

  She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face—her usual pose when greeting me.

  “What does it look like? I’m clearing my nasal passages. Pete was here.”