Francesca's Kitchen

by Peter Pezzelli

  “Ugh,” groaned Shirley. “It’s always such a bore. At least it means the football season is finally all over, thank God. Maybe now the guys will want to discuss something different at the watercooler.”

  “Yeah,” snickered Loretta. “They’ll all want to talk about next season.”

  The two kibitzed for a while longer, cheerfully casting aspersions on the male of the species and discussing the latest company gossip. It wasn’t long, though, before Shirley went on her way, leaving Loretta to her work.

  Later that morning, as it was nearing lunchtime, a golf ball came slowly rolling past Loretta’s desk. It bumped up against the wall a few feet past her, bounced back an inch or two, and came to rest. Leaning over to the side, Loretta peeked out of her cubicle. As expected, she saw Mr. Pace ambling down the hall in her direction. The old gent seemed less intent on retrieving the ball than he did on inspecting the grip of the putter he was carrying. He turned the club over in his hand, examining it with a look of perturbation.

  “Thought I had that putt read perfectly,” he muttered. Then, looking up with a half smile at Loretta, he added, “It must be the putter that’s the problem, not the man doing the putting, right?”

  “Oh, no question about it, Mister Pace,” Loretta agreed. “I’m sure they don’t make those clubs like they used to.”

  “Maybe we could file a lawsuit,” he mused, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “You can’t imagine the pain and anguish I’ve suffered on a golf course. I could tell you some stories that would have the jury in tears.”

  “Just give me the word, and I’ll start writing up the papers,” she offered.

  “Well, not just yet,” he said, clearing his throat. “For the time being, I just stopped by to thank you for your nice note.”

  “Thank you for all the nice food,” replied Loretta. “That was really sweet of you. You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”

  “Oh, it was no trouble at all,” he said. “Gave me a good excuse to get out of the office. Besides, I enjoyed meeting your Mrs. Campanile. She seemed very nice—and she makes an excellent spaghetti sauce, you know.”

  “Yes, she does,” said Loretta, eyeing him with curiosity. “But how did you know that?”

  “Oh, while I was there, she let me come into the kitchen and have a little taste test with some Italian bread I had brought,” he explained.

  “Did she really?” said Loretta, nodding thoughtfully. “Now that’s very interesting.”

  “Of course, she seemed quite busy,” Pace hastily added, “and I had to get back to the office, so I didn’t stay long. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, that she was shirking her duties or anything like that. But I rather enjoyed talking to her…that is…what I mean to say is that she seemed very…” The senior partner’s face suddenly flushed, and he gave a little cough. Stooping down, he snatched up the wayward golf ball and tossed the putter atop his shoulder.

  “At any rate,” he said, turning quickly to go, “I suppose I should get back to work before I get myself in trouble. Nice to see you healthy again. Have a good weekend, Loretta.”

  “You too, Mister Pace,” she called after him.

  Drumming her fingers on her chin, something Loretta did when she was deep in thought, she watched him saunter back down the hall. A smile came to her face, for a silly, impossible notion had just crossed her mind, one that hadn’t the least chance of ever coming to fruition. Nonetheless, the thought of it brought a warm glow to her heart, which would carry her through the rest of the day.

  “Yes,” Loretta chuckled to herself as she turned her attention back to her work, “that was very interesting indeed.”

  

  Francesca and the kids were in the kitchen, sitting around the table, when Loretta returned home that evening. The three had been talking and laughing so loudly that none of them heard her come through the door. She stepped quickly inside and stuck her head into the kitchen.

  “Hey, what is this? Nobody comes to the door anymore when I come home?” she said, feigning a pout.

  “Hi, Mom!” called Will. “What’s for supper?”

  “Ayyy, never mind about supper,” Francesca chided him. “The two of you, go give your mother a hug when she gets home from work.”

  With exaggerated enthusiasm, the two hurried over to embrace their mother. Penny rested her head on Loretta’s shoulder and looked up at her with angelic eyes. “It’s so nice to have you home, Mother dear,” she said sweetly. Then, “So, what’s for supper?”

  “Pizza, you brats,” said Loretta, playfully pinching their ears. “How does that sound?”

  “Ouch,” Penny winced. “Pizza works for me.”

  “Me too,” added Will, rubbing his ear as he squirmed free. “I’m going to play some PS2 while we wait.”

  “And I’ll be upstairs,” said Penny, pushing past her brother. And off the two went.

  “You know, I would have been happy to cook supper tonight,” said Francesca when the children were out of earshot. “You still look tired.”

  “No, you’ve already done way too much this week,” said Loretta, sitting down at the table. “I’m really grateful, by the way.”

  Francesca shrugged and gave her a dismissive wave.

  “Well, anyway,” Loretta went on, “it’s Friday night, so who wants to cook?” She paused to assess the older woman’s reaction. “That doesn’t make me a bad mother, does it?”

  “No, not at all,” laughed Francesca. “Like you said, it’s Friday. Everybody deserves a break. The most important thing, no matter who cooks supper, is that you all sit down together every night to eat it. That’s what counts. Believe me, if you do nothing else but that when you’re raising kids, you’ve got half the battle won.”

  Loretta nodded respectfully. Francesca, she was discovering, was a font of simple wisdom on a variety of subjects. She admired that a great deal about her. Just the same, despite her growing esteem for the older woman, Loretta could not suppress an impish impulse.

  “I happened to see Mister Pace today,” she said, the hint of a mischievous smile coming to her face.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” said Francesca, betraying no evidence of emotion at the pronouncement.

  “Yes,” Loretta continued. “He said he enjoyed meeting you—and getting to taste the sauce you were making that day.”

  Francesca narrowed her gaze at the younger woman. “So?” she said with a touch of annoyance in her voice.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Loretta innocently. “I just thought it was funny that the first thing you did when you two met was to give him something to eat, that’s all.”

  Francesca, no doubt, caught the knowing gleam in the young woman’s eye, for her face reddened ever so slightly. “It just goes to show that you have to be careful who you feed,” she said, taking the offensive. With that, Francesca got to her feet and pushed her chair back in place. “Well, I think it’s time for me to be going home now.”

  Ever so pleased with herself for having once gotten the better of her venerable babysitter, Loretta walked Francesca to the door.

  “Come say good night to Mrs. Campanile, Will,” she said.

  “Good night, Mrs. C,” said Will as they passed, his eyes reverting immediately to the television.

  “Good night, Will. Be a good boy,” Francesca told him.

  “Penny!” Loretta called up the stairs. “Say good-bye to Mrs. Campanile.”

  No answer came.

  “Penny!” she called again with the same result. “What is she doing up there?”

  “What do you think?” said Will. “She’s on the computer.”

  Loretta shook her head. “I don’t know what to do sometimes,” she said to Francesca. “I worry all the time about what she’s doing up there on that computer, what she’s looking at on the Internet, who she’s talking to.”

  “Why don’t you just move the computer down here, where you can keep an eye on her?” Francesca said simply.

  Loretta scowled with a
nnoyance at the simple, inescapable logic of the suggestion, her smug self-satisfaction of just a few moments earlier gone with the wind.

  “Well, good night everybody,” said Francesca, an impish look coming into her own eyes. “See you on Monday.” With that, she turned and headed out the door.

  Loretta could only stand there, fuming, as she watched the old woman make her way down the steps. She stayed there, tapping her foot, until she could contain herself no more.

  “Oh, you think you’re so smart!” she finally cried out.

  From out in the darkness, she could hear Francesca break into unrestrained laughter. Then, in spite of herself, Loretta broke out into laughter too. She waved good-bye, closed the door, and went to the window. Will put aside the video game controller and stood beside her.

  “You know, Mrs C is okay,” he said, looking out. “But sometimes, she thinks she knows everything, doesn’t she.”

  “Yes, she does,” Loretta agreed.

  She smiled, though, because as she watched Francesca drive away, Loretta suddenly realized that something quite unexpected had happened between her and the old Catholic Italian lady who sometimes made her feel guilty.

  They were becoming friends.

  CHAPTER 36

  “Well, hello, Mrs. Campanile,” said a yawning Tony. “It’s been a while since the last time I saw you in the store at this hour. Cooking dinner for the family today?”

  It was Sunday morning. Anxious to get to the market early, Francesca had roused herself from bed the moment the first rays of the rising sun had touched her eyes. With a yawn of her own, she pushed her carriage up to the register and shook her head.

  “Not exactly, Tony,” she replied as she put the chicken cutlets and the rest of her groceries up on the counter. “My son decided at the last minute to have some friends over to his apartment today, to watch the big football game, so he called me last night and asked me to make a little something for them to eat. Can you believe it?”

  “Hey, I don’t blame him,” said Tony, smiling. “You can’t have a Super Bowl party without food.”

  “Eh, I guess,” grunted Francesca, trying her best to sound annoyed, even though she was inwardly delighted. She had never been a particularly avid sports fan, so the game held little interest for her. Just the same, any opportunity to put her cooking skills to work for her son made it a happy occasion. She gave a scowl nonetheless. “It would have been nice if he at least let me know about it a day or two in advance,” she griped.

  “Ayyy, you know how kids are,” laughed Tony. “They’re all the same, even after they grow up.”

  “I’m not sure if all mine are completely grown-up yet,” Francesca sighed.

  “Yeah, but would you want them any other way?” said Tony.

  “Probably not,” admitted Francesca. Then, leaning closer, she added, “But don’t tell them that.”

  When she returned home, the first thing Francesca did after bringing the groceries into the kitchen was to put on some music on the living room stereo. Francesca loved music. For her, it was as integral a part of Sundays as was dinner with the family. Good music complemented good food like a pleasant bottle of wine, and Francesca reveled in their blending, especially when she was cooking. That’s when a symphony of sounds and smells would fill her home. Ask any of her children to name some of their favorite reminiscences of growing up, and sooner or later all of them would inevitably mention awakening on Sunday mornings to the sound of Verdi, Puccini, Mozart, or Strauss playing on the record player in the living room, or sometimes to the voice of Francesca herself crooning along with Sinatra or Tony Bennett. Along with the music, the delightful smell of whatever happened to be baking in the oven would float up the stairs to their bedrooms like notes in an arpeggio, rousing them from their slumbers, so that for the rest of their lives, the sounds of many pieces of music were forever coded in their memories along with the warm, pleasing aroma of food.

  Later that same morning, as it was nearing midday, Francesca was listening to Beethoven’s Ninth while squeezing the juice of a lemon onto the lightly breaded pieces of golden brown chicken she had been sautéing on the stove. The juice evaporated with a hiss when it hit the pan, but it would leave the meat with a nice tangy flavor. Humming along to the music, Francesca tossed a pinch of salt over the chicken for good measure, and covered the pan with a lid. In a separate frying pan on another burner sizzled sliced artichoke hearts, zucchini, scallions, garlic, and olives. Francesca gave it all a stir before turning her attention to the oven. She opened the door and peered in to get an assessment of the two big foil pans baking inside. Satisfied with what she found, she covered each of them, closed the oven door, and turned off the heat.

  By the time Joey arrived a short while later, the orchestra had made it to the symphony’s fifth movement. Though she spoke not a word of German, Francesca was ramping herself up to join in with the chorus when her son walked into the kitchen. She had been in soaring good spirits all that morning even before he arrived. Alice and Rosie had called earlier; both had talked of a possible trip home to visit in the summer. Added to her elation at the prospect of seeing all her grandchildren together was the distinct satisfaction she felt at how much better things seemed to be going for her at the Simmons house. Loretta had surprised her Saturday afternoon by sending a nice little floral arrangement to say thank-you for taking care of her all week. Displayed in their vase atop the dining room table, the flowers reinforced in Francesca a feeling of confidence and optimism every time she looked at them. All in all, she had already been in a mood to sing. Seeing her son put her over the top.

  “Hey, there you are,” she said merrily as she pushed the chicken from the skillet into an empty foil pan. “You’re just in time. Listen, they’re playing ‘Ode to Joey’!”

  It was obviously still too early in the day for her son to appreciate the joke, for his only response was a blank look and a shrug. He ambled over to the counter to get a peek at what his mother had prepared.

  Francesca shook her head and clicked her tongue at him. “Let me tell you something,” she said testily. “That’s as good a joke as you’re going to hear all day.”

  “Uh-huh,” grunted her son. “So, whatcha got cookin’? It looks good.”

  Francesca didn’t reply right away, but instead took the other frying pan from the stove and pushed all the artichokes and zucchini and olives into the foil pan with the chicken. Humming along to the chorus, she began to mix it all together.

  “Listen to that music,” she mused. “Imagine how good it must have felt to write a song like that. I mean, the first time he heard it in his head. What was it like for him?”

  “I’m guessing he was joyful,” said Joey, deadpan.

  “Oh, so the brain is finally up and running after all,” she chided him, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I remember you making wandies one time when this song was playing.” Then, furrowing his brow, he added, “Don’t ask me how I remember that.”

  “Out of my way,” said Francesca, elbowing her son away from the stove. She bent over and opened the oven door. Reaching in with a pot holder, she pulled out the two foil pans and set them on the counter. She lifted off one of the foil covers, releasing an aromatic burst of steam. “Here,” she said, “have a look. I made you some sausage and peppers. And in the other one is the baked ziti.”

  “Madonna mia,” marveled Joey.

  “Hey, watch that mouth,” said Francesca, even though she was quite pleased by his reaction.

  “But Mom, you cooked so much. The chicken would have been plenty. You didn’t have to do all that.”

  “What, you’re gonna be scumbarì and not have enough food for everybody?” she scoffed. “Just shut up and take it.”

  “You’re the boss,” said Joey. He reached toward the pan to sample a piece of the sausage, but his mother swatted his hand away.

  “Hands off,” she snipped. “Go sit down for two minutes if you want to
try some.” With that, she nudged him toward the table before reaching for the bag of rolls she had bought earlier that morning at the bakery. She opened one of the rolls and layered the inside with some sausage and peppers before spooning on some of the olive oil and juice from the pan. She put the sandwich on a dish and set it on the table before her son. “So, anybody special coming to watch the game with you today?” she asked, taking a seat across from him.

  Joey well understood from experience what his mother meant by “special.” “No, Mom,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’m just having a few friends over, so please don’t start. Just let me enjoy my sausage and peppers.”

  “Who’s starting anything?” huffed Francesca defensively. “I was just asking a simple question.”

  “Yes, but that was just a different version of the same simple question you’re always asking me.”

  “What,” pouted Francesca, “I’m not supposed to want to see my son settled down and happy. Go ahead. Shoot me for being concerned.”

  Joey let out a little laugh. “Well,” he said gently, “it hasn’t quite come to that yet—not yet.” Then, looking away to the window, he suddenly shook his head, his smile fading away. “You know, it’s not like I haven’t been looking for someone,” he admitted in a weary voice. “Sometimes it feels like that’s all I do. I’d settle down in a minute if I could find the right one. But it gets to the point where I don’t even want to bother anymore.”

  Francesca reached out and gave her son a gentle slap across the top of his head. “Maybe you’re looking too hard,” she told him. “Maybe you should try a little less quantity and a little more quality, if you know what I mean. And who knows, maybe let someone find you.”

  Joey made no further reply, other than to shrug and take a bite of his sandwich. The subject was once again closed.

  Later, Francesca packed all the food into a pair of cardboard boxes. While he waited, Joey wandered into the dining room, where he noticed the flower arrangement on the table.

  “Hey, what’s this?” he called. “Who’s sending you flowers? Somebody special?”