Next June
il prossimo giugno
The following June, Francesca had just folded the last of the lace-trimmed aprons and set it atop the pile at the end of the kitchen bench when she heard it.
The first of Impastino’s thirty-four tolling bells.
‘Amore!’ she called out. ‘It’s happening!’
Alessio’s head popped over the saloon doors. ‘I’m here. Let’s go!’ As she stepped out of the kitchen, he caught her in his arms. ‘Will you be alright? Are you still feeling good about this?’
She looked around them, studying all they had achieved over the past twelve months since that fateful day Alessio had checked in, and what they had conceptualised and conceived together since.
Francesca nodded. ‘This is the way forward. This is how we can share our love of pasta with the world. Not just with Impastino.’
The pad of his thumb caressed the underside of her chin. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
She gave a gentle shake of the head. ‘No, no. I’m proud of us.’
The dining tables were gone, replaced by a number of long narrow benches, each brandishing a specific name – linguine, lasagne, tortellini, fettuccine, cavatelli and farfalle.
Chairs had been swapped for a series of stools, lined up against one wall, next to which sat a new sideboard with open shelving.
On the top lay a collection of new pasta boards, hand-made from local reclaimed wood.
Underneath, small wicker baskets held piles of pasta-making utensils – cutters, rollers, stamps and moulds, pasta machine accessories and knives.
In the middle of the space was a central larger workstation in stainless steel aptly named Fatina dei Fusilli. Upon the bench sat the usual implements and gear, including the plastic Virgin Mary–shaped bottle of holy water and the tazza della pasta.
Francesca took in the vintage photos and posters which celebrated the iconic presence of pasta in popular culture.
But then, as the final bell tolled its summons of Impastino’s locals to the piazza, Francesca looked to the latest additions to the wall.
There was a striking photo of her father, standing tall and proud, wooden rolling pin trophy under one arm, with a little curly-haired Francesca of eight or nine by his side.
Then there was a second photo – the one that had broken all their hearts four months ago – of Maria sitting in her favourite chair by the end of the kitchen bench, ratty apron tied around her waist, elbow propped up on the steel, with a wooden spoon in hand.
It was the very chair where Francesca had found her one morning, at peace, still, with her usual bowl of beans in her lap.
On account of that photo, Maria’s cheeky impish grin would forever grace her lips as she oversaw this new phase of her family’s legacy.
Francesca blew a kiss in Maria’s direction then turned, leading Alessio out into the piazza.
The early June sun enveloped them with its familiar radiating warmth, promising a summer of hope, love and adventure.
Francesca shielded her eyes as she scanned the many faces in the crowd, all gathered to hear Felice’s annual address.
She pulled Alessio behind her, ducking and weaving through the locals until she found her mother.
Elena’s face lit up upon seeing the pair, and she extended a passionate hug to both, the force of which kicked up her pleated blue skirt.
‘Ready, Mamma?’ Francesca asked, taking her mother’s hand into her spare one.
Elena nodded. ‘I only wish they were here to see this.’ Francesca watched as Elena’s eyes tinged with nostalgia, yet her smile remained steadfast.
‘They’re here, Mamma. I know they are.’
Francesca released her hold on Alessio and he moved to stand behind her; steeling, strong, protective. He tenderly tucked a few stray curls behind her ears, then his hands came to rest securely on her waist. It was all she needed to feel at peace among the chaos and colourful energy of the piazza.
Flags and restaurant banners whipped in the breeze, while the familiar Martino drums pounded out the heartbeat of the town.
‘Impastino!’ Felice cried joyfully, the trusty Giovanni by his side.
‘This year we have three restaurants in the running for the title, and since our updating of the rules, we welcome any chef from those establishments to compete, irrespective of gender or title. First, Da Martino . . .’ A low growl simmered among the townsfolk.
‘Lu Ientu.’ Whistles and cheering were added to the chorus.
‘And U Ssale!’ Another layer of jubilant cheers joined the rest. ‘Our friends at Trattoria dei Fiori have stepped into a new pasta challenge of their own this year, so are watching on with curiosity from the sidelines. Am I right, Francesca? Alessio?’ He picked them out in the crowd.
‘And we can’t wait to teach you all a thing or two!
’ Francesca poked back with a smile, earning tittered laughter from the townsfolk.
‘A fresh take on Impastino’s pasta culture; the town’s legacy and rich traditions mixed with our stories .
. .’ She gave Alessio’s forearms a squeeze.
‘Pasta . . . our way. Shared with the world.’
‘No doubt you will make it a great success! We are all delighted for you. Let’s congratulate them!’ Felice beckoned, his hands calling for support from the audience, who were happy to oblige.
The deafening applause was a fitting backdrop as Francesca looked to Trattoria dei Fiori, her heart full.
There, painted in their trademark red and white overlooking the piazza, its new name beamed bright for all to see.
Scuola di Cucina – La Vita Segreta della Pasta.
The Secret Life of Pasta School.
Felice waved his arms enthusiastically in the air, and the people of Impastino matched his passion with roars and cries. ‘Let the Festa della Pasta begin!’