Francesca's Kitchen

by Peter Pezzelli

  “Who cares?” said Will, reaching for the plate.

  “But first,” interjected Francesca before he could lay his hand on a single morsel, “that table needs to be cleared off and these counters straightened up. Do you think you two could do that for your mother while I let these cool?”

  Despite the old woman’s smile, there was a certain sternness in her eye and in the tone of her voice as she proposed this bargain, neither of which seemed to cause the boy any great concern. His sister, however, paused to consider the whole thing more carefully.

  “Is there anything else we have to do?” Penny asked.

  “Yes,” said Francesca, confirming the young girl’s suspicions. “You have to wash your hands after. Then you can have a cookie.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” enthused Will. “Let’s get going!”

  It didn’t take long for the two to clear the table. Most of the mess was old schoolwork and junk mail that had been allowed to sit there collecting dust. Just about all of it, to Francesca’s way of thinking, should have gone directly into the trash. She knew that over time, such messes took on lives of their own, and it was hard to displace them once they had established themselves, unless you attacked them ruthlessly every day. Still, she didn’t want to run the risk of the children throwing out something of importance without their mother’s permission, so she pulled a chair away from the table and had the children stack everything neatly on its seat. It was not the best solution, but at least it was a start. At long last, it might be possible for people to sit at the table and eat.

  The counters were a bit trickier. Most of the heap, from what Francesca could see, was useless clutter. Just the same, she was aware that, between the catalogs and pamphlets and sticky notes and announcements from school and old envelopes with hastily scrawled notes across their backs, there was bound to be at least one item of import. That being the case, she directed the children to simply organize everything as best they could, to at least create a little working space for food preparation—if any such thing were to ever happen there again. Francesca briefly considered prodding them to take on the sink full of dishes—after all, doing the dishes every night after dinner had been one of her primary duties as a young girl—but she decided it would be best not to push her luck at that particular moment. Finally, when the children had finished, she reminded them to wash their hands and, true to her word, let them both try one of the cookies, but not before pouring each of them a glass of milk and making them sit at the table.

  “Sit, and eat those right there,” Francesca told them. “I don’t want you getting crumbs from my cookies all over your mother’s carpets. And make sure you drink all that milk.” She took a seat at the table and watched them, delighted at the looks of pleasure on their faces as they munched away. Perhaps they weren’t listed on the food pyramid that people were always talking about, but as far as she was concerned, warm cookies and cold milk were essential nutrients for children. It occurred to Francesca just then that hot chocolate would have gone even better on that winter’s day. She filed the idea for future reference.

  The rapidity with which the cookies disappeared into their mouths convinced Francesca that to not allow the two children a second cookie each would be cruel. Besides, with Will looking up at her with that irresistible Oliver Twist look on his face, how could she refuse? Before they had a chance to ask, Francesca suggested that, if they liked, they could each take another. The words had scarcely left her lips before two more cookies were swiped from the plate.

  “Dio mio, chew those slow!” Francesca exclaimed as she watched the two youngsters gobble them down. “I don’t want you both to choke, God forbid.” As at all kitchen tables at which children sit, the words fell upon deaf ears. All Francesca could do was look on and smile.

  “So, what do you think?” she asked when they had both swallowed their last bites. “Were there enough chocolate chips? My son likes lots in his cookies.”

  Before Penny or Will could answer this dismaying question—for the thought of Francesca taking the remaining cookies home to her son filled them with despair—the telephone rang.

  “I’ll get it!” cried Penny, springing from her seat.

  “You always have to answer the phone,” muttered her brother.

  “No,” said Francesca, motioning for the young girl to stay put. “I’ll answer the telephone.”

  Penny stiffened.

  “Don’t worry,” Francesca told her, unmoved by the indignant look with which the child fixed her. “If it’s for you, I’ll tell you.”

  As she stood and reached for the phone, Francesca knew that she was crossing a line, but sooner or later, it had to happen. Since she began watching the two children, and against her better instincts, she had allowed Penny a free hand to answer the telephone, and to make calls of her own from time to time, without question. This the young girl inevitably did upstairs, out of the range of the old woman’s still-keen sense of hearing. Francesca had never felt comfortable with this arrangement, for she felt an obligation to know who was calling the house and to whom the child was speaking. Besides, she had never allowed her own children such latitude at home, at least not at such an early age. Why would she do so now with these two? Loretta had not advised her one way or the other on the children’s use of the telephone. That being the case, Francesca decided it was time to set her own rules. She picked up the receiver.

  “Hello,” she said with Penny and Will hanging on her every word, the way children always do when a grown-up gets on the telephone. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Simmons. Yes, everything is going just fine.” Francesca put the phone to her shoulder. “It’s your mother, for me,” she told them before putting the phone back to her ear. “What’s that, Mrs. Simmons? Oh, yes, they’ve been angels. They just had a little afternoon snack, and now I think they’re just about to go do their homework.” Francesca gave the two children a furtive look when she spoke this last statement. Reluctantly, Penny and Will slouched away from the table and trudged into the living room to find a spot where they would still be close enough to eavesdrop. “You think you might be late again this evening?” said Francesca, a smile breaking out across her face as she watched them go. “No, don’t worry, Mrs. Simmons. It’s no bother at all. Yes, of course I can take care of dinner…”

  “Where are you going?” said Will when Francesca emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later and went to the front hall to put on her coat.

  “Just out to the car for a minute,” she replied. “I’ll be right back.”

  Francesca returned shortly, carrying two plastic grocery bags. She set the bags down on the floor for a moment while she hung up her coat. Then she picked the bags back up and hurried past the two children.

  “What’s that you got?” Will called after her.

  “Frozen dinners,” Francesca breezily replied. “Go do your homework. I’ll call you when it’s time to eat.”

  Once in the kitchen, Francesca put the bags on the counter and, from one of them, pulled out two half-gallon plastic containers. The tubs, two of the many old ice-cream containers she saved to store leftover food in, held the extra tomato sauce and meatballs she liked to keep on hand in her freezer at home. Solid as rocks, they thudded against the counter when she set them down. She peeked in the other bag to make sure it still held the box of spaghetti and the little container of grated cheese she had also brought along just in case she had been called upon to cook dinner. That little bit about frozen dinners had only been a white lie, Francesca reflected as she pried off the tops of the sauce and meatball containers. Most of this dinner was frozen at the moment—but it wouldn’t be for long.

  There were a thousand other meals Francesca might have conjured up for dinner that evening, but to her recollection, no child she had ever encountered disliked spaghetti and meatballs. Like the chocolate chip cookies, it was a safe bet. Just the same, she held her breath when she called the children back to the kitchen and set the pot of steaming, sauce-drenched noodle
s and meatballs on the table. She would have liked to serve it in a nice big pasta bowl, but there was none to be had. Presentation, however, was not something that overly concerned her. The food was what counted. And besides, throwing the spaghetti back into the same pot in which she had boiled it would make for less work when it came time to clean up. It had been enough of a job just cleaning one side of the sink so she could strain it all.

  Any misgivings Francesca might have had about the meal she had prepared were instantly dispelled when she saw the hungry looks on the children’s faces when they came to the table. “Get some clean plates—or bowls would be better,” she said, giving Penny a nod. To Will she said, “And you get some forks and spoons.”

  The two did as they were told and watched eagerly as Francesca filled their dishes. To her chagrin, however, the two took their dinners and waltzed away toward the living room.

  “Ayyy!” Francesca exclaimed, stopping them dead in their tracks. “Where are you two going?”

  “To watch TV while we eat,” said Will, not at all understanding the look of outrage on his babysitter’s face.

  “In my house,” Francesca replied cooly, “when I cook a meal, people sit down at the table and eat it together.”

  “Well…this is not your house,” said Penny in a much meeker tone than she had hoped for. She was summoning up as much defiance as she could, but she was finding it quite difficult to do, given the fact that she was dying to get a taste of the spaghetti.

  Francesca cowed the girl with a withering look. “This might not be my house, but that’s my food I just cooked, so you do what I say if you want to eat it.”

  “But you didn’t say anything last night,” countered Will, who was no less anxious to set his teeth into one of the meatballs on his plate.

  “That’s because I didn’t cook that meal,” Francesca replied. “I just thawed it out, which is not the same thing. This one’s all mine—so back to the table, you two.”

  Seeing her resolve, and realizing that they were not making their case, the two siblings looked at one another for a moment and reluctantly trudged back to the table. Francesca filled a plate for herself, and the three sat down together to eat.

  “Now, isn’t this nice?” said Francesca, all the time feeling more and more in her own element. She waited for an answer, but the two children already had their mouths full. “Here, put a little cheese on that,” she said, opening the container of grated Romano and reaching for the spoon. “And sit up straight when you eat. And chew that food good before you swallow it. Then both of you can tell me all about your day at school.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Am I a bad mother?”

  It was lunchtime, and Loretta was sitting at a little table in the deli on the first floor of the office building where she worked. Her chin propped on her hand, she took a disinterested bite of her tuna salad sandwich and stared forlornly at the building’s main entrance, where people were bustling in and out through the big revolving door. It was another bitter cold day, the latest in a long line. Everyone inevitably walked in from the outside with their shoulders hunched, their hands buried deep within their pockets, and their chins tucked low against the collars of their overcoats. Those walking out assumed the same posture as they approached the door, always hesitating for just an instant before passing through it, as if they wanted to brace themselves before braving the icy air’s impending assault. Watching all of them come and go sent a chill up her spine, and Loretta wished for all the world that she could be someplace, anyplace, warm.

  “Bad?” said Shirley, who was sitting opposite her, pondering her own tossed salad and low-cal dressing with a less-than-enthusiastic eye. “Of course not. What on earth makes you ask such a question?’

  “My babysitter—my nanny—whatever you want to call her,” muttered Loretta in reply. She dropped her sandwich onto her plate, dabbed the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin, then started to tear the napkin bit by bit into little pieces.

  “Oh, boy. What’s happened now?” said Shirley. “Don’t tell me you caught her making out on the couch with some guy.”

  “Oh, shut up,” huffed Loretta, flicking a piece of torn napkin at her friend. “How could you even think such a thing? I mean, she looks good for her age, but not that good.”

  “Well, it is the twenty-first century,” offered Shirley with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Anything’s possible.”

  “Please. That’s all I need.”

  At that, Loretta tried to go back to sulking in silence. Shirley’s curiosity, however, had been piqued.

  “Come on,” she prodded Loretta, “tell Auntie Shirley all about it. What happened? What did your nanny do that’s got you looking so blue?”

  “No,” said Loretta. “You’ll just think I’m an idiot if I tell you.”

  “Perish the thought. Come on, let’s have it.”

  Loretta let out a long, weary sigh. “Okay, you want to know what happened?” she finally said. “Last night, she cooked the kids spaghetti and meatballs without even asking me.”

  “Uh-huh,” nodded Shirley thoughtfully. “And how was it?”

  “What?”

  “The spaghetti and meatballs.”

  “Delicious,” griped Loretta, then added, with another sigh, “So were the cookies.”

  “She made cookies?”

  “Homemade chocolate chip.”

  “I see,” said Shirley. “Was that all?”

  “No,” answered Loretta ruefully. “Before I came home, she made the kids straighten up after dinner so that the whole kitchen was the neatest it’s ever been when I got home.”

  “What a witch,” said Shirley deadpan. “I can understand why you’re so upset.”

  “It’s not funny,” cried Loretta. “I know it sounds stupid, but I felt embarrassed, almost…I don’t know…humiliated.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Shirley with a dismissive wave. “Why on earth would you feel that way? After all, it was only a plate of pasta.”

  “I told you, she’s an old Catholic,” Loretta sulked. “They’re all the same. They have this way about them. Without even trying, they make you feel guilty for no good reason, like you’re doing everything wrong. Trust me, I know. My mother is an old Catholic.”

  “And what does she have to say on the subject?”

  Loretta rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Oh, never mind,” she sighed. “Don’t even go there. That’s another story all by itself.”

  “Loretta,” said Shirley after a time, looking at her friend with a kind grin, “hasn’t it occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, all this nice lady wants to do is help? You know, if you were to ask me, I’d say that she’s just what you need right now.”

  Loretta slouched back in her chair and pouted. Deep in her heart, she knew that Shirley was probably right. Thinking back to the previous evening, even she wasn’t quite certain just what it was that had caused her so much grief when she had come home to find a nice plate of leftover spaghetti and meatballs waiting for her at the place her children had set for her at the table. Mrs. Campanile had covered it in foil to keep it warm, as she did with the leftover chocolate chip cookies. She even left some leftover meatballs and sauce in the fridge. Walking through the door, cold and weary, Loretta could not have denied that there was something wonderful about that delicious smell of food that greeted her. Later, though, after Mrs. Campanile had gone on her way and she sat down to eat her supper, Loretta had wanted to break down in tears when Will said to her, “Isn’t that spaghetti and meatballs delicious, Mom? I wish you could cook like that.”

  “I don’t know,” Loretta admitted gloomily. “Maybe you’re right. I know my life is a mess, but it’s my mess. It’s the only thing I have. I’m a grown woman. I feel like I should be able to sort everything out by myself, without needing someone else to do it for me. God, I just need a little break, that’s all. A chance to catch my breath. Then I could finally get things in order. Instead, I just bounce from one thing
to another, and I feel like…like…”

  “Like you’re doing everything wrong?” Shirley finished for her.

  Loretta narrowed her eyes in an icy glare. “You know,” she grumbled, “you’re not being very helpful.”

  “Sorry,” said Shirley. “Just joking. But I wish you would stop and listen to yourself for a moment. You just got finished saying that all you need right now is a break. Maybe this Mrs. What’s-Her-Name is it. Why not let her try to help?”

  Loretta was about to try to explain why when she looked past Shirley and caught sight of someone stepping out of the elevators. She leaned forward to get a better view. Her spirits suddenly began to rise, and a faint smile came to her face.

  At seeing her changed demeanor, Shirley turned around in time to see Ned Hadley, the scion of New England Trucking, for whom the firm had been doing so much work that week, stepping into the lobby. “Well, well,” she said at seeing his now-familiar face. “Look what the cat’s dragging out.”

  As Hadley turned and hurried toward the revolving doors, he happened to glance toward the deli, and the two women caught his eye. At seeing them look his way, he nodded a greeting and gave them a wink before slipping out the doors.

  “God, he is so stuck up,” said Shirley, her voice dripping with disdain.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” said Loretta, nodding in agreement, even though she was inclined to a slightly more favorable opinion of the young businessman.

  Now, at hearing Loretta’s less-than-convincing tone of voice, it was Shirley’s turn to let out a grumble. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned her friend.

  Loretta smiled and gave a dismissive wave of her own. “Who, me?” she said, trying her best to act as though she had no idea at all of her friend’s meaning. She knew full well, though, that it hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice, least of all Shirley’s, that the young Mr. Hadley had shown a particular interest in her during the past few days. Whenever Loretta came into the room or passed him in the corridor, he was sure to give her a smile and make some pleasant, casual remark that, while harmless enough, perhaps bespoke more familiarity than that to which he was entitled.