Chapter 23
‘So it’s lasagne for lunch on Sunday,’ Giovanni says, writing it up on the whiteboard in the kitchen.
‘Just one thing,’ I say. ‘How will we choose a winner?’
‘We will ask the mayor to judge. It can be on his head!’
We’re all in agreement.
‘Let’s get everyone to spread the word. Friday suppers, tell everyone about the lasagne contest.’
We’ve put up signs around the village. Giovanni and I are visiting each of the three nonna s with their Friday-evening meals.
‘Well, this is a surprise. Two guests!’ says Nonna Teresa when we visit her first and tell her of our idea
Then on to Nonna Lucia. ‘What a lovely pair you make!’ says Nonna Lucia.
‘Oh, no, we’re not …’ We speak in unison, and see disappointment on her face.
‘Well, not officially,’ I say. Beside me, Giovanni practically chokes on his coffee and I nudge him. ‘We’re planning a party, for when the house is finished.’
‘An engagement party?’
‘No!’ we say.
‘More of a summer celebration,’ I say, ‘inviting people to join in with what the village has to offer. Cooking at La Tavola and enjoying the company.’
‘A festa ,’ Giovanni puts in, and we wish we’d rehearsed what we were going to say.
Lucia’s eyes twinkle. ‘But it could be an engagement party?’ She smiles naughtily.
I say nothing.
‘We want to choose the best meal for the party,’ Giovanni says.
‘Lasagne, of course!’
‘Yes … but which one?’
‘Well, mine has always gone down well, like my tiramisu.’ She looks down at the fritto misto we’ve delivered. ‘This fish needs more salt. And a little less time in the pan.’
‘We’d love to try your lasagne.’
‘On Sunday at La Tavola?’
She sniffs and even gives a small smile.
‘A lasagne competition, you say?’ Nonna Rosa’s competitive streak is apparent as soon as we mention it.
‘Like I say, we’re choosing a lasagne for a summer party. We thought everyone should get the chance to put forward their recipe.’
‘It’s all in the sauce,’ she says. ‘A chance to show that mine was the original and the best!’
We leave the final house as it’s getting dark. We put all the empty dishes into the basket to return to La Tavola. We walk up through the cobbled streets under the bright white moon, which seems to hang over Casa Luna.
‘Would you ever do it again?’
‘What? Make lasagne?’
‘No, get married. You seem to have your life sorted.’ I tilt my head. ‘The nonna s sound pretty keen to find you a match!’ I smile. ‘Maybe you and Caterina.’
‘No. We’re friends, good friends.’
‘Ah, okay.’ Again my thoughts turn to Stella.
‘Once burnt, twice shy!’ he says. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, I’m not looking for a partner right now. That’s the last thing I need.’
We carry on walking up through the village, watching the bats flit in the lamplight.
‘I have the children to think of. And, besides, I don’t know if I’m angry about Marco dying and leaving me, or just so sad that he did.
Or sad for the future we didn’t get. I couldn’t bear to have his memory trampled on right now.
’ I swallow, my mind wandering back to what on earth Stella had meant by her and Marco being ‘friends’.
‘He was the love of my life. I could never see myself with anyone again. Especially not someone …’ I stop, not knowing where that came from.
‘Who worked in a kitchen, reminding you of him. Not wanting to put yourself through it again.’ He turns to me, and my insides fizz with excitement that I try hard to extinguish.
I clear my throat. ‘Something like that.’
And we walk on in silence, lost in our thoughts.
Back at La Tavola Giovanni pushes open the wooden door into the courtyard, and Bello rushes to meet him. The soft orange glow of the lights draws us into the kitchen where everyone is tidying up after Friday-night deliveries.
They turn, practically as one, to us.
‘Well?’ says the mayor, who is there, shirt sleeves pushed up and elbow deep in soap suds at the sink, ‘What did they say?’
We stand in the doorway, and then, together, we smile.
‘They said sì !’
Everyone cheers and whoops. It’s like we’ve had a lottery win! Giovanni tries to manage expectations, but everyone is buzzing with delight.
‘Look, all we’ve managed to get them to do is turn up to the lasagne competition on Sunday,’ he says, trying to calm things. ‘They know nothing about the cookery weekend yet. They think they’re coming just to defend their recipes and honour.’
‘And so they are!’ says the mayor. ‘We want them to share those recipes and help keep this place going. It’s the heart of the village.’
‘It’s a start!’ I say cheerfully. ‘We’ll get them to share their food and hopefully agree to help us.’
‘I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.’ Giuseppe gives a throaty laugh, patting the mayor’s shoulder. The poor man looks as if he’s carrying the weight of the world on it.
And now the big day is here, Sunday. The church bells are ringing, signalling the end of Mass and the beginning of lunch in the village.
The thin congregation files down the steps, stopping to talk to each other.
There is a buzz in the air in anticipation of the lasagne competition.
Everyone is talking about it. Who will enter?
Who will win? Will it come to blows like last time?
I’m nervous. All we can do is hope that the nonna s turn up … and that it doesn’t end in a brawl.
Everything is prepared. The salads are made, with fresh green leaves and herbs that Caterina has grown in the borders and the pots in the garden at La Tavola.
The table is laid, with jugs of wine and water.
The bread is in the kitchen, waiting to be sliced, alongside baskets.
Giovanni made it that morning, Luca helping – he got up especially early to join Giovanni in the kitchen.
It’s been so good to see him want to be involved.
Now, nervously, we’re standing in La Tavola with the doors wide open. We look at each other anxiously, myself, Giovanni, Caterina, Enrico, Alessandro, Giuseppe and the mayor, who seems more worried than anyone else.
‘One of them wanted to marry me once,’ says Giuseppe. ‘I decided to stick to goats. Much more predictable.’
‘Look!’ shouts Alessandro, pointing down the road from his lookout position standing on the wall. ‘She’s coming. Nonna Lucia is coming!’ he shouts to us.
We hurry out into the road, to see her walking up the road, carrying a basket.
‘Go and help her with her basket,’ I tell Luca and Pietro. They race down the hill and relieve her of her heavy load.
‘ Buongiorno! ’ we call to her and wave. She’s happy to be here by the look of it.
We usher her inside. She sits and accepts the glass of water she’s offered. The weather is hot but she’s in her Sunday best. Gold earrings and matching necklace. A blue dress covered with sunflowers, pop socks to her knees and smart court shoes.
We offer to help unpack her bag, but she shakes her head and pulls the basket closer to her, clearly protecting her ingredients and favourite kitchen utensils.
She soon realizes she is the first nonna to have arrived, sips her water and waits.
Soon there is another shout from Alessandro. ‘Nonna Teresa!’ he calls.
Nonna Lucia bristles, straightens, and checks her lightweight blue cardigan and her brooch.
Nonna Teresa is just as smartly dressed, with bags that Luca and Pietro are carrying in for her. She and Nonna Lucia offer each other a stiff greeting, and she directs Luca and Pietro to put her bags on the work surface at the furthest end of the kitchen. She sits and takes a glass of water.
The clock ticks slowly round to ten.
‘ Mamma ,’ Aimee calls, a change from her usual ‘Mum’ but I don’t say anything. ‘It’s not much of a contest with only two people.’
‘We could enter?’ says Luca.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say, trying to hide my disappointment that Nonna Rosa hasn’t come.
Luca is warming to his theme. ‘Dad used to make a sort of lasagne all the time,’ he says. ‘The customers loved his vincisgrassi from Le Marche.’
‘Not a lasagne, though,’ the children and I say.
‘Seven layers of pasta, always!’ says Luca, in an impersonation of Marco, and we laugh.
‘We used to make it for birthdays,’ says Aimee.
She’s remembering the good times, not the day Marco didn’t come back from the restaurant and her birthday tea was abandoned.
‘Yes, we did,’ I murmur. I see a lasagne dish being slid across the counter and look up to see Giovanni smiling.
‘It’s about the experience,’ he says. ‘Plenty of ingredients from the delivery this morning from the supermarket. Might not have the meat, though …’
‘It’s okay,’ I say.
‘We could do a veggie version.’ Luca nods and smiles widely.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, feeling hot. This wasn’t what I was expecting. But none of this has been quite what I was expecting.
The clock slips past ten and a shadow appears in the doorway.
It is Nonna Rosa. I feel a flood of relief and I’m not sure if it’s because she’s here, and things are going according to plan, or that I don’t have to make Marco’s version of lasagne.
Somehow, I’m not ready to do that, even though I can see how keen the children are.
Nonna Rosa is still standing in the doorway. ‘You weren’t thinking of starting without me, were you?’
Giovanni greets her warmly. ‘We wouldn’t have dreamt of it!’
‘Good. Because we all know who makes the best lasagne in this village.’
The other two nonna s sniff. ‘Phfffff.’
Giovanni and I smile. They’re here. All three of them.
‘Perhaps we could help the nonna s,’ I say, to Luca and Pietro. ‘We’ll work in teams.’ My mind is whirring, seeing how this could work for the cookery weekend. They nod enthusiastically.
‘It’ll be like helping Dad make his,’ I tell Luca. But it won’t be the same without him. ‘Let’s make a start, shall we?’ I call. ‘Oven on?’ Then to everyone, I say, ‘Put yourselves into teams with your nonna s.’