The Secret Ingredient

by Kilby Blades

  “Where do you keep your pasta-making attachment?”

  Max backtracked to a floor-level cabinet and pulled out a hand-crank pasta maker that had been in his family for years. He set it on the counter in front of her.

  “I’ve never actually used one of these.” She looked a little embarrassed.

  “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  He anchored it to his counter. He couldn’t help admiring the rhythm of her body as she worked the rolling pin, her pressure firm as she teased out a thin sheet from their first ball of dough. With skilled hands, she cut two sections just narrow enough to place into the contraption. He stepped into her space, closely enough to pick up one of the sections and position the first piece inside.

  Their arms brushed together as he eased the sheet of dough off of where it sat on his arm, onto hers. From behind, he squared her shoulders and stepped her closer to the counter so she would be in the right position.

  “Are you right-handed or left?” he asked.

  “Right.”

  “Cranking with your non-dominant hand will be the most awkward part, but don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”

  “Won’t the pasta get messy on the other end if my hand isn’t free to catch it?”

  “No. It’ll just fold up into a pile. The trick with hand pasta makers is not to feed it with a sheet so long it’ll get jammed down at the bottom. Go ahead,” he encouraged.

  She was tentative as she began, but as she felt her way through the process, he could see her determination. On the sheet’s first pass, she fumbled with extending the folded pasta, and drawing it back out for a second run through. The second time, he didn’t help her. It was harder than pressing a button, but she was getting the hang of it. When she held the finished sheet between her palms and bounced it lightly, she scrutinized it, inspecting it from above and below.

  “The thickness setting is the same as what I’d use on a machine. But texture and elasticity are much better.” She looked back and forth between he and the pasta. “Why would that be?”

  “Tradition.” Max smiled, thinking of how many times the single-word answer had been issued with emphasis from his aunt’s lips.

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Yet you’re holding proof of the difference in your hand.”

  “It’s math,” she argued lightly.

  “There’s no logic to the Italian kitchen, Cella—only intuition.”

  Max dipped his hand in the open bag of flour, thinking to sprinkle it on the counter.

  “Not 00,” she interjected.

  He frowned. “Won’t it stick to the counter?”

  “Semolina’s better. Too much 00 and it’ll add to the hardness. Just a little semolina will keep the texture.”

  Between this, and her tip about mixing all-purpose with 00 to make the pasta, she’d taught him more than he ever thought to know about flour. He was liking being her assistant already. Max pulled out another pasta maker and the next thirty minutes were spent with each of them rolling out dough, hand-cutting and cooking. Cella taught him how to do a formal tasting, how to score consistency and presentation.

  “Have you ever written a recipe?” she asked.

  Max shook his head as he wiped down the counters. He thought it best not to mention that the only recipe books he owned were Julia Child’s classic, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, and five of Cella’s.

  “It’s a precise science,” she continued, opening her notebook. “You start by ordering the ingredients by proportion. It always goes largest to smallest. We’ll have to make two versions. Americans measure by ounces. Most of the rest of the world measures by grams, though the hundred-gram rule is always best for pasta.”

  “The hundred-gram rule?”

  “Most Americans do three to four, cups to eggs. 100 grams for each egg is nearly the same, but it works better.”

  “You write grams, I’ll write ounces?” he suggested. “Then we’ll test one another’s recipes.”

  They worked on opposite sides of the counter. When their batches turned out differently, they pored over their respective attempts and negotiated wording. He advised adding olive oil, not water or another egg, if the flour wouldn’t absorb. Between wordsmithing and editing, she answered his technical questions and gave him tips on making sure it all came out right.

  The final step was photographing the food at various stages of prep, and again once it was plated for presentation. Cella thought professionally modeled food looked too fake. When she found out that Max knew his way around a camera, she added it to his list of responsibilities. It would be easier to get the shots if Cella had only to focus on the food.

  By the time three o’clock came, they were exhausted, but satisfied with their progress. The next day, they'd tackle flavoring pasta variations for certain dishes.

  When every dish was washed and every ingredient put away, Cella made to leave. Max took a chance before he could think about its wisdom.

  "I have a lovely Nebbiolo. May I offer you a glass while I braise some short ribs?”

  He studied her face, getting the sense that she wanted to stay but didn't know whether she should. Was she afraid that he would ask her for something more than she wanted to give?

  "We've only had pasta all day, Cella. We probably need some protein."

  He saw on her face the moment she made a decision.

  "You can pour me some Nebbiolo, but please, Max…let me cook with you?"

  “I have a confession to make,” Cella said as they descended the back steps of his porch.

  The sun was setting and they were headed toward the small garden he kept at the side of his house.

  “How long has it been since your last confession?”

  She smiled. “Awhile.”

  “What’s your sin?”

  “I think I’m a little rusty on Italian cooking. The idea of doing sauces day-after-tomorrow is a bit intimidating. I just got back from staying with a friend in Italy. I wanted to brush up. I tasted a lot while I was there, but today was my first day cooking. Sitting down to actually write reminded me how much I’ve forgotten.”

  “You seemed more than capable to me.”

  “Capable, yes. But I’ve never actually worked in a restaurant that had a focus on Italian. And in culinary school, you kind of blaze through each cuisine. There’s a lot of emphasis on the French kitchen, but what you said was right—there are nuances to this.”

  He opened the low gate when they reached the garden. It was just over waist-high to Max, but high enough to keep small animals, including Cujo, out. He let Cella walk in before him.

  “Not that I’m complaining…but, why did you choose this cuisine?”

  “A lot of reasons, I think.” She looked toward the water. She had shaken her hair out of the loose bun she’d placed it in to cook all day and Max liked the way the evening breeze blew it across her face. Raising an elegant hand to her jaw, Cella pulled aside wisps of hair that had gotten stuck on her lips. “Maybe because my publisher’s been hounding me to do an Italian cookbook for three years. Maybe because I wanted to feel closer to my grandmother. Her cookbook’s the only thing I have left to remember her by.”

  She looked back over at him. “I came in knowing I had a few things to learn, but you showed me things I’ve never even heard of. It’s like, I know the recipes, but you know how to make it authentic.”

  He didn’t mention that she, too, had taught him plenty that day. What she said evoked words that had spent the day at the forefront of his mind.

  “It feels good to have someone to pass it on to. I’m the only one left. If it dies with me, it dies.”

  Some shared sense of purpose passed between them, broken only when she shifted her eyes downward and plucked the pruning shears out of his gloved hand. When she returned her gaze to his, it held resolve. “Then let’s keep their legacy alive.”

  4 The Market

  Chefs were workers of the night, but creatures of the morning. Cella had neve
r broken the habit of being up early, nor the daily compulsion to go to the market. If the kitchen was Cella’s canvas, what she found there was her palette. It only took one spectacular find—fresh morels, bright herbs, or summer fruit that was perfectly in season—to spark inspiration.

  Dark glasses and a baseball cap were hardly necessary at that hour—the low light of dawn still carried the remnants of night. Regardless, Cella donned her standard disguise used for daytime outings of any kind. Three-quarter length running pants, a workout top, flip flops, sunglasses and a sporty visor were her props.

  Threat of recognition notwithstanding, she was still tantalized by the sights and smells of the market. No matter where in the world Cella found herself, the bustle was all the same. Trucks unloaded the daily catch as men with clipboards took inventory. She could smell the salt of the sea, see the shimmer of scales, and feel the coolness of the shaven ice. Butchers made bold cuts with sharp knives, talking over the volume of their slicers and grinders. Grocers stacked vegetables into colorful pyramids in their produce stalls. Bleary-eyed children who were out of school for the summer joined in the shuffle to help.

  The sign on the placard on the door confirmed the marketplace didn’t open until nine. That part didn’t faze her—it was standard for restaurant pros to do their business well before. What did surprise her was the number of people inside. A quick count told her that there were somewhere around forty people already milling around, with merchants hard at work fulfilling orders. Either the sign was dead wrong, or there was some hidden enclave of restaurants in this town.

  Trudging forth, Cella thought of her plan to start in on classic sauces the next day. Marinara called for tomatoes, onions and garlic in quantity, while pesto and puttanesca would need a combination of things. She’d need loads of pine nuts, capers and olives to round out her list. Also to its credit, this market had a spice merchant who was regarded as the best in the region. Longport ’s fortuitous location—with the sea at one side and some of the most verdant farmlands in the country on another—allowed what was essentially a local country market to rival some of the very best in the world.

  The scallops looked amazing, but the amount they would be cooking didn’t justify buying more. She’d have enough trouble finishing whatever they made, even if she gave a lot of it to Max, and she didn’t like to waste food. She was in the middle of buying the last of her ingredients—Parmigiana Reggiano for the pesto—when the peace of her blissfully uneventful visit was broken. She thought she heard some part of her name being called and turned her back, not in the mood to be recognized.

  “Marcella”! The voice said more sternly. But she didn’t dare to move. When she heard footsteps, she knew the interaction would be inevitable.

  When she turned around to see Max’s face, her gaze quickly went southward as she felt her legs being nuzzled by a very eager dog.

  “Hey there, boy,” she said to Cujo, bending at one knee to greet him, setting her heavy basket down long enough to give him a good, firm rub.

  She stood to face Max, embarrassed for having ignored him.

  “I didn’t hear you,” she lied.

  “I figured I’d try your full name,” he smiled. “Any time I didn’t hear my aunt, she’d switch and call me Massimo.”

  Between the tender memory, and her delight at seeing him two hours earlier than she had planned, Cella returned his smile.

  “Jake.” Max turned to the cheese monger. “Have you met our newest summer resident, Marcella?”

  Jake looked up from what he was doing and wiped his hands on his apron before extending it to shake her hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Marcella.”

  She blinked, waiting for recognition to dawn. She was surprised when it didn’t come.

  “Likewise,” she recovered. “And please call me Cella.”

  Jake nodded. But he seemed more interested in Max.

  “Heard you were back, man. When’d you get into town?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “How long you back for?”

  “A month.”

  “We goin’ biking?”

  “At some point, yeah.”

  “I found a sick trail. This time, I’m not taking excuses.”

  “Helping Marge wasn’t an excuse. You know how bad the Sand Dollar got it in the storms. She needed my help.”

  Jake threw Max a look that showed Cella she was out of the loop, then continued.

  “You know the fundraiser’s in three weeks, right? You gonna be ready?”

  “Yeah,” Max confirmed. “Just let me know what else you need me to do. The restaurant is covered. I’ll do repairs and cleanup over the weekend. How’s Evie?”

  “She’s caught something nasty.”

  “What did Ed say?”

  “You didn’t hear? He had a heart attack a month or so back.”

  “Shit. Is he alright?”

  “He made it, but it’s not good. Some hotshot kid from the city comes through two days a week. You can barely get an appointment, not that you’d ever want to—no one likes the guy.”

  Max looked perturbed. “Why don’t I drop by in a little while to have a look at Evie?”

  Jake extended his hand again. “Thanks, man. I’ll give Rach the head’s up.”

  A minute later, Max had relieved Cella of her heavy basket, trading it for Cujo’s lead. The latter was trotting happily next to her, stopping to smell the inventory every few feet, as they made their way down a wide aisle.

  “Where to, next?” Max asked, looking down at her.

  “Coffee, definitely. I saw the roaster back by the door. In the meantime, I thought I might hit the ice cream place.”

  It was barely eight in the morning. Cella hadn’t seen anyone behind the counter when she’d passed before. She doubted it would be open now, but there was no harm in giving it a try.

  “Favorite flavor?” he quizzed.

  “Cookies and cream.”

  “Cup or cone?”

  His voice was all-business but his face was failing at hiding his smile.

  “Cup. And don’t judge me.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Studies have shown that ice cream in the morning makes you smarter.”

  The ice cream stall she’d seen on her way in was visible at the end of the aisle. To her abject surprise, he stepped ahead of her a bit, far enough to stop her in her tracks, and turned abruptly to face her.

  “Then you’d better let me get it for you. Jeannie Staples owns it. Around here, we say she runs the newspaper.”

  The way he said it told Cella what he really meant.

  “Town gossip?”

  “Pretty much. She’s sweet, but she’ll need a talking-to if you don’t want her to spread the word. The locals won’t care, but if I don’t tell her to keep a lid on it, she’ll tell every tourist in town.”

  “Do what you have to do.” Cella appreciated the warning, though she was skeptical of Max’s claim that the locals wouldn’t care. She had no illusions that the world would soon know her location, but planned to delay that moment to whatever extent she could. Reality would dampen her enjoyment of her time off before long. It always did.

  From there, Cella took the long way to the roaster as Max disappeared to the ice cream stand. Their order came up just as Max arrived with a white paper bag large enough for a pint container. She had chosen a small table and handed Max his steaming cup. When she’d mentioned wanting to buy some more beans for herself, Max had waved the idea off, insisting he would simply give her some of his own Tanzanian roast.

  “This is good…” The hot liquid on her tongue was welcome, as was the warmth of the cup in her hands. “But not as good as yours.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled modestly.

  “I’m kind of surprised to see you here so early.”

  “Local hours,” he explained. “So many out-of-towners descend on this place during the day, that people who live here come early. We beat the rush and the vendors give us better prices.”


  “That’s really nice.”

  Max shrugged again. “We’re a tight-knit community. Jeanne won’t say anything, by the way. We locals take care of our own.”

  “So I’m a local now?” The idea delighted her, and she smiled.

  “You are when you’re with me.”

  Cella looked down as she felt Cujo’s little paws at her thigh. He was up on his hind legs, begging to sit on her lap.

  “Cujo…” Max said sternly.

  But Cella pushed her chair back a bit and coaxed the little dog up to sit with her. Cujo curled himself to sit comfortably and let out a dramatic yawn before settling his head on his paws and enjoying having his back scratched.

  “I think he likes you more than he likes me,” Max said with a mixture of humor and trepidation.

  “He’s just hoping for a repeat of getting fed off of my plate.”

  “I think it’s a bit more than that.”

  Max’s lazy smiles and lingering gazes weren’t flirtatious per se, but they were bolder than anything she was used to.

  “So…Evie?”

  “Jake’s daughter. She’s six.” Max looked at his watch. “They only live ten minutes away. I should be back from seeing her by nine, no problem. I may stop off to see Ed Fletcher, too. He’s been the town doctor since I was a kid. I wish I’d known about the heart attack. I would have gone to see him as soon as I got back.”

  Max was as companionable as ever, but Cella hadn’t missed the hint of a pall that had fallen over him as soon as he’d heard the news.

  “Take your time. Sick friends trump pasta any day.”

  Max smiled. “Thanks. But I don’t want to be late to work.”

  5 House Calls

  Max had been so swept up with Cella that he’d barely given a thought to his other commitments. Planning for the fundraiser would take days. The Longport Preservation Society had been established some twenty years before in response to water pollution and land development that threatened local ecosystems and animal habitats. It was vital to protecting Longport’s coastlines and keeping inland acreage pristine.