“You’re right.” I held up my pasta hands. “I’d check now if it didn’t mean washing up first.”
She laughed. “It’ll just be another…seven minutes of kneading.”
“I also e-mailed Neil,” I confessed.
“You have been busy. What did you say?”
“I told him the birthday was loud, that I followed you to Chicago.”
“Did you tell him about Thanksgiving?”
“No. It felt weird, mentioning it over e-mail. I left it out.”
“Didn’t you say he’d been seeing somebody? I mean, I don’t doubt you, but I just remember you mentioning that.”
“He said he was, yes.”
“But he went to Powell’s by himself. Interesting.”
“Lots of people do.”
“Eh, a visit to the Rare Book Room is a good date trip. I think it’s a sign.”
“A sign that he likes books?”
“A sign that he’s not seeing anyone anymore, at least not seriously.”
“I’m not interested in him that way,” I warned her. “At least, I shouldn’t be. We’re just friends. Seriously, the relationship ship has sailed. It’s more than sailed. It has left the harbor.”
“Mmm,” she replied. I didn’t need to ask to know she didn’t believe me, and I didn’t feel the desire to argue the point. “Has he written back yet?”
“He did,” I conceded. “I sent him a few ideas for things to do in Portland—you know, like taking Germantown Road to St. Johns Bridge, that sort of thing. Well”—I cleared my throat and turned my dough yet again before shoving it down—“he did, and had a lovely time. And he liked Tin Shed, which I’d suggested for brunch.”
“Smart man.”
“He sent some things to do here, though he figured I was busy with you and the boys.”
“Like what?”
“Visit Saint Hedwig’s, explore Schiller Street, ice cream at Margie’s Candies.”
Caterina gave an appreciative nod. “Solid ideas, all. Is he from the Chicago area? I thought he was from the South.”
“His friend Callan is from Chicago—recently moved back, if I remember correctly.”
“Cool. Well, if you’re interested in any of those, we can make it happen. And you know you’re welcome to borrow one of the cars too.”
“I know. I’ve been enjoying my walks to the grocery store, though.”
“I can tell—on my last visit, no less than three employees gushed about you.”
“Seriously?”
“Food people like food people. You’re an appreciative buyer.”
The timer beeped, interrupting our grocery discussions. I picked up my wedge of dough. “How’s yours? Mine seems nice and glossy.”
“Mine is glorious. Let’s set these to rest and see if we can find anything about Great-Aunt Alice.”
We washed up and retreated to Caterina’s office at the top of the stairs. Caterina hovered over my shoulder as I sat down at her computer.
“Alice Roussard.” I entered the name and hit Enter.
Three hits: two random, one obituary.
“Look at that,” I said.
“That might be something,” Caterina said at the same time.
I clicked the obituary, my heart pounding.
“ ‘Alice Roussard passed away on February 8, 2008. She was 87,’ ” I read.
Caterina tapped her fingers against the desk. “Bingo.”
“ ‘Alice is survived by her husband Benjamin and three daughters,’ ” I continued. “ ‘Lisette Greenfeld of Kansas City, KS; Vi Lipniki of Poughkeepsie, NY; and Rosaline Warner of Saint Louis, MO.’ ”
“Ha! No wonder you were having trouble getting anywhere with Roussard. Benjamin had three daughters, all of whom changed their names.”
“Well, now we’ve got them.”
“Saint Louis is within driving distance, Etta. If we found a number or e-mail for Rosaline…”
“It’s certainly worth a try,” I said, clicking to a new browser window. I typed in Rosaline Warner’s name and hit Enter.
“Would you look at that,” Cat said when we viewed the results.
I couldn’t help but chuckle as well. Link after link featured Rosaline Warner, the James Beard Award–winning pastry chef and proprietress of the Feisty Baguette. “Genetics,” I said. “They’ll getcha every time.”
~ HOMEMADE PASTA ~
400 grams type 00 flour
4 eggs, at room temperature
Water, if the dough feels dry
Cornmeal, to keep pasta separate
Extra flour, for the pasta machine or rolling pin
Clear a space on a flat countertop or tabletop. Weigh the flour with a kitchen scale.
Place the flour straight onto your workspace, forming a well with your fingers. Crack the eggs into the well, one at a time—if they run over, don’t worry overmuch. Gently work the eggs into the flour, starting with the edges. Blend the eggs and flour together until a shaggy dough forms. If the dough is very wet, add a little extra flour. If it’s dry, add a splash of water.
Knead the dough for 10 minutes or until the dough becomes smooth and glossy. Wrap with plastic and allow to rest for 10 minutes.
Once the dough has rested, prepare to cut the noodles. Line two baking sheets with parchment or waxed paper, and sprinkle them with cornmeal.
If you don’t have a pasta maker, use a rolling pin to roll the dough very thin, flouring the rolling pin to prevent sticking. If the dough breaks, simply put it back together and keep rolling. Pasta dough isn’t like pie pastry or cookie dough—it won’t become tough if overworked. Instead, the handling simply increases the elasticity of the dough. Roll the dough as thin as possible, and use a sharp paring knife to cut the noodles. Cut about 1-inch width for pappardelle, ¼ inch for tagliatelle.
If you’re using a pasta machine, assemble the machine according to the manufacturer’s instructions. Sprinkle some flour over the roller, and then roll a small rectangle of dough through the widest setting. Repeat until the dough can pass without breaking. Adjust the width of the roller by two settings, and roll through again, reflouring as necessary. Once the dough can pass through that setting without breaking, adjust another two settings. Aim to finish at about a 6—too thin and you’ll have problems with the noodles sticking or breaking, unless used immediately. Finally, use the pasta-cutting attachment to cut the pasta to the desired size and shape.
Lay the finished noodles in a round on the baking sheet, sprinkled with cornmeal to prevent sticking—the cornmeal will fall away during the boiling process. Don’t let the noodles become too warm, or they’ll stick badly and be unusable. Work in as cool an environment as possible. When you’ve completed a baking sheet’s worth, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate.
Note: The proportions of the dough are very simple—it’s one egg to 100 grams flour, and when deciding on serving size, that amount constitutes one generous portion. The above recipe makes enough for 4–5 people. Also, the freshness of the flour matters, so be sure to check the expiration date of the flour. A flour nearing its expiration date will be drier and more difficult to work with.
Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
—WILLIAM BLAKE
I considered calling the bakery straightaway, but Caterina needed to pick up the boys. I elected to join in and wait until she’d be able to be with me.
We listened to Brandi Carlile during the drive and discussed picking up canned tomatoes and a chuck roast for a hearty pasta dinner.
Once Caterina had gathered the boys and fastened them into their seats, I half-listened to their afterschool chatter while pulling out my phone and opening my text messages.
I couldn’t not tell him.
“Found Benjamin’s daughter. She’s a pastry chef in Saint Louis,” I texted Neil. “Will attempt to make contact this afternoon.”
A moment later my phone buzzed.
“That’s incredible
! You should hire yourself out as a PI. Hope the call goes well. What are you planning to say?”
I laughed softly to myself.
“I’d be the slowest PI ever. My motto would be ‘I’m cheap, and I might have answers in six months. Take a cookie on your way out.’ ”
Another buzz.
“A good cookie should never be underestimated.”
I typed out my reply. “True. Also, have not figured out what to say. How do you tell someone that you’re their long-lost…second cousin once removed? Maybe I should get that straight first.”
“You could just say you’re working on tracing out your ancestry. People do that all that time. Say you’re tracing ancestry and you have some questions about her uncle.”
I reread the text. “That’s a good idea,” I texted back.
“Thanks,” he wrote. “You enjoying the Windy City?”
“I am,” I typed out. “It’s good to get out of town for a while.”
“You’re texting very quietly,” Caterina observed. “You don’t have to tell me who it is. I’m just making an observation.”
“Yes,” I said dryly. “Your self-control is much admired.”
“I’m just saying. I’m here for you.”
I glanced over at her. “That’s very sweet of you.”
“It’s all for you, darling.”
My phone buzzed, and I glanced down. “It’s Neil. If you must know.”
Caterina kept her eyes glued to the road as she turned the corner. “You had Neil-texting energy.”
“I’m not even going to try to untangle what on earth that means.”
“How is Neil?”
“He’s…” I read his text: “Did Adrian join you?” I snorted. “He’s fishing. Metaphorically.”
“Appreciate the clarification.”
“He’s trying to figure out if Adrian came.”
“Of course he is. What are you going to say?”
“Haven’t figured that out yet. He did have a good suggestion about how to broach the subject with Rosaline. So that’s good.”
“You haven’t told him you and Adrian broke up?”
“It’s not something I’m proud of, so I haven’t brought it up for show and tell.”
“You mentioned that Neil’s a half-decent social-media sleuth. I imagine Adrian’s swapped his profile photo of the two of you for something artistic and brooding. Latte art, at the very least.”
“Adrian won’t brood for long,” I said. “It’s not in his nature.”
“You get what I’m saying. Is Adrian the sort of person who writes cryptic posts about his personal life? I feel like he would be.”
I massaged my brow bone. “It’s not like I’m trying to be mysterious. I’m not that girl. But I’d very much like the guide that details how long the moratorium should be on communications with other gentlemen after a declined proposal and the end of a relationship.”
Caterina thought for a moment. “Which gentleman offered you his handkerchief? Because that makes a difference.”
“You know what I mean. It feels a bit weird. I guess it shouldn’t, not if we’re just friends.”
“Honestly?” Caterina steered the car onto her street. “Every relationship and relationship dynamic is different. You and Adrian getting together was very…organic, I guess, because you’d been working in such close quarters for so long. And you and Neil—there’s a history.”
“Well, it’s the history that we’re texting about. I knew he’d want to hear about finding a relation of Benjamin’s. I figured it was…I don’t know, safe.”
“Darling, he’s a man,” Caterina said as she pulled the car into her garage and slid the transmission into park. “There’s no such thing as safe.”
We walked to the store together, both to buy beef and tomatoes for the pasta and also to finish wearing the boys out for the day—or at least for an hour. Back at the house, Caterina set the boys up in front of the TV with a bowl of carrot sticks. Their bodies stilled and slackened against the couch cushions as the theme music for Thomas and Friends began; Caterina slipped out of the room and followed me into the office.
“I’m going to call now,” I said, holding my phone in my hand, my thumb over the Call button. “I’ve got the number of the bakery plugged in.”
“Go for it.”
“I do realize that she might not even be in,” I said. “But this is a start.”
“That’s right.”
“Right.” I nodded. “Right.”
I pressed Call and waited, listening through the rings.
“The Feisty Baguette, this is Breena.”
“Hi! Hi, Breena,” I said, vaguely aware that I sounded completely unstable. “Is Rosaline available?”
“Rose? Yeah, she’s here. Hang on, ’kay?”
“Okay,” I echoed. I could hear Breena calling for Rosaline in the background. “She’s getting Rosaline, or Rose. I don’t know what to call her.”
“Stick with the legal name,” Caterina advised. “Unless she identifies herself differently. I don’t know either.”
I heard the phone change hands. “This is Rose. How can I help you?”
“Rose—hi,” I said, before taking a deep breath. “You don’t know me. My name is Juliette D’Alisa. I’m doing some genealogical research.”
“Oh. Okay. Is this going to take a while? Because I’ve got some pastry I need to get back to. I can call you back.”
“If you need to call me back, that’s fine. It’s just that I’ve recently learned that Gabriel Roussard was my grandfather.”
“Gabriel?” Her voice changed.
“He was your father’s older brother. He died during the war.”
“I know who he is. How— You’re his and Mireille’s granddaughter, you said? Who’s your mother?”
“Gabrielle. Gabrielle Roussard Bessette D’Alisa.”
“Oh, my. Where are you? Where do you live?”
“I live in Portland—Oregon, not Maine—but I’m visiting my sister in Chicago at the moment.”
“Chicago! You’re practically just over the fence!” A pause. “You’re really Gabriel’s granddaughter, you’re not pulling one over on me?”
“No,” I said, unable to hold back a chuckle. “I have letters, I have cuff links your dad made, and my brother is the spitting image of Gabriel. I can send you pictures.”
“Yes. Oh yes, do. Where is your mom?”
“She— We lost her to cancer three months ago. My grandmother—Mireille—she passed last winter.”
“Oh.” Rose’s voice turned somber. “I’m very sorry to hear that. It sounds like you’ve had a rough couple years.”
“Yeah,” I said, and that was all I could say. I could already feel the tears in the back of my throat.
We exchanged contact information, and Rose promised to get in touch with her sisters. “Dad lives in Kansas City near my sister, Lisette. He’ll want to meet you. I’m just telling you that now.”
“We can drive to Saint Louis,” Cat reminded me in a stage whisper.
“My sister just reminded me that we can drive to Saint Louis,” I told Rose.
“How many of you are there?”
I laughed. “I’m the youngest—two older sisters, two older brothers.”
“Five children?”
“It’s true.”
“Goodness. Well, I wasn’t lying about that pastry; I have to get back to it before it gets too warm. But I will be in touch with you—don’t doubt it.”
I rolled out the pasta dough in a daze. The repeated action of pressing out a square and rolling it through the pasta machine gave my fingers something to do as I processed my conversation with Rose.
Caterina worked on her second machine, our actions mirrored. The hand-pressed square went through the machine at the widest setting, twice, to help the dough adjust to the idea of being stretched. Two clicks on the dial, some extra flour, and we pressed the sheets just a little thinner as the dough became more elastic. Two mo
re clicks, and this time we passed them through, cranking by hand, as the dough became fine and thin. A second pass, more flour, and then a trip through the pasta cutter, which shaped the sheets into tagliatelle.
The finished pasta rested on a chilled metal baking sheet, with cornmeal sprinkled over the top to prevent sticking.
“I think what gets me about all of this,” I said as I folded a broken pasta sheet and ran it through the press, “is that Mom’s gone. I finally find Rose, and Mom’s gone. And I wish I’d found her sooner.”
“Juliette—”
“I had those letters before Mom died. I could have put the pieces together, searched for Aunt Alice before. Mom might have been able to meet her cousins.”
“She was fighting for her life. And she told you that it didn’t much change her world—she loved her family; she was content.”
“I know that, on one hand. But on the other, I feel like I…I failed her.”
Caterina put her arm around my shoulders. “Oh, honey, no. I don’t think she felt that way at all, and if you asked her now, she’d tell you the same. And truly—she read the letters as well. If she’d wanted to, she could have asked you to look for Benjamin’s family, or hired someone who specializes in those kinds of things. She could have sent you to the chateau, to see if that key works after all. But she wanted to spend her time with us, with Dad. If she’d wanted to do otherwise, we both know she would have moved heaven and earth to make it happen.”
Suddenly, my eyes and nose began to run. I sniffed, setting the pasta sheet down in order to blow my nose. “Sorry,” I said, wiping my eyes and taking a breath. “I just feel so frustrated sometimes. Like somehow we stumbled into the wrong story. Mom dying of cancer—it feels so truly, deeply wrong.”
“I know, honey.”
“And yet I know it happens. We met the other families in the waiting room. I know it wasn’t just us. Sure, we have huge advances in medicine but people die from cancer every day. I just didn’t want people to mean my mom. And now that it has—” I shook my head. “And the more I find out about her family’s past, the more my heart breaks that she couldn’t be a part of it.”
Caterina reached for another disc of dough and began to work it with her fingers. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “there are a few ways to look at it. They’re Mom’s family and Mom’s history—but it’s your history too.”
Together at the Table Page 10
