Chapter 18
“Va bene,” Nonna says approvingly, standing at the kitchen prep table and surveying the snack I’ve made. “You remembered something special then?”
“I did.” After getting home from the market, I set to work on the merenda while Alex disappeared upstairs and Nonna went outside to putter in her herb garden. Now it’s time for us to try what I made.
Nonna scrutinizes the plate. “That looks good,” she says approvingly.
“I hope so.” I feel inordinately proud; such a small accomplishment, but it means something big to me.
One down, forty-nine to go. At this rate I’m going to reach fifty recipes far too late, but one is better than none, I remind myself.
One is a good start. I think wistfully of Nonna’s book of recipes.
I still can’t quite believe they’re simply all gone.
It makes me a little sick to think of it, to think of what that means for me now.
How easy this process would be if I had them.
No reason to walk back down memory lane in search of recipes.
They would just be at my fingertips. I sigh with regret.
I guess I’m going to have to do this the hard way.
One recipe at a time, trying to dredge them from my memory.
I’m almost tempted to go look at the book again, just to be sure the recipes have truly vanished.
I know what I saw—the pages all blank—but I still can’t quite believe it.
And what about that strange moment when Nonna grabbed the book from my hand?
The page wasn’t blank then. I picture the torn recipe for Orange Blossom Cake, and recall what Nonna shared about this kitchen, the magic that she insists is here.
I wonder if everything is connected. I wonder if I’m missing something important.
“Let’s eat.” Nonna interrupts my train of thought. I shake off my thoughts and carry the plate to the table. I need to concentrate on the one recipe I do have and not spend time pining for the ones I don’t.
It is a simple dish, just figs stuffed with goat cheese, wrapped in the salted meat, and drizzled with a little honey.
Simple but delicious, and most importantly, meaningful.
I already know how I’ll introduce this recipe for the book, talking about that day at the market with my dad.
As soon as we’re done, I plan to pop upstairs and write out the recipe and the accompanying story.
It feels good to have made at least some progress.
“Alessandra!” Nonna calls up to the ceiling.
She grabs a broom from the corner and bangs the top of the handle against the ceiling a few times.
There is a distant, irritable “Okay, okay,” and a few minutes later Alex clatters down the stairs and into the kitchen, looking sleepy and a little out of sorts.
“I guess I fell asleep.” She yawns. “What time is it?”
“It’s the jet lag,” I tell her. “It gets you.” I should feel just as tired, but weirdly, I feel energized by my little victory.
“Just past three in the afternoon,” Nonna tells her, replacing the broom in the corner. “Time for the delicious snack your sister prepared.”
I don’t correct her about the sister / half sister distinction.
I just let it go. Alex slides into a chair and pulls out her phone, immediately scrolling and tapping away.
She’s always on that thing. I wonder what she’s doing.
Nonna makes lemonade and sets a glass in front of each of us.
“Now we try your creation,” she says, sitting and reaching for a fig.
“Wait!” I put out a hand. “I just remembered, I have to take a photo of each completed dish for the cookbook.” I scowl at the plate of food.
This is going to be a problem. I’m not good at staging or taking photographs.
Michelle specified that I have to submit photographs with the recipes.
High-quality photographs. Originally, I planned to use photos Drew took of dishes I made for the show.
He always took a few good still shots of any recipes I made when we were filming the segments, and I was going to include them with the vintage recipes.
But now all those recipes and accompanying photos are useless. What do I do?
I try to arrange a few things on the table to make it look like a still life—a few whole figs and a drizzle of honey on the plate, the goat cheese with a knife slicing through the rind behind it. It feels corny and staged. I snap a few photos and they look…okay. Not great.
“This isn’t working,” I admit finally. I step back and survey my handiwork in exasperation, biting my lip, trying to think. Now what?
“Maybe if you turned the plate like this?” Nonna suggests. It doesn’t help.
“It’s the light. Your lighting’s wrong.”
Nonna and I both look up in surprise. Alex is still looking at her phone as though she hadn’t spoken.
“What?” I ask.
Alex glances up and frowns critically at the still life I’m trying to create on the table.
“You can’t have the light coming down from above like that. It makes shadows.”
“Oh.” I step back and survey the scene. “Um, okay. How do I fix it then?”
She makes a tsk ing sound and stands up. “Okay, fine. I’ll show you.”
She goes and grabs the lamp from the sideboard in the hall, plugging it in near the table and angling the light so it illuminates the dish.
Instantly, the snack looks a hundred times better.
The figs look plump and luminous, bursting with the creamy goat cheese.
Cocking her head, Alex studies the dish from different angles, circling the table.
Then with quick, hesitant movements, she adjusts a few things, changes the angle of the plate, moves the cheese, and removes the knife.
Satisfied, she raises her phone and starts snapping.
A few seconds later she shows me what she’s got.
“Wow, those look great. Like professional level.” I’m impressed. “How did you know to do that?”
“I took a couple of photography electives.” Alex shrugs, deft fingers adjusting the plate minutely, nudging the figs slightly into a different arrangement. “And I spent all winter break at a photography camp in upstate New York last year while Mom and Dad were skiing in Tahoe.”
She lifts the phone again, moving slightly, squinting, assessing.
She’s got the newest, fanciest iPhone, the one with a camera that can practically take a photo of the surface of Mars.
Of course it’s the newest one. Money can’t buy your parents’ love, but it can buy really expensive electronics. She shows me the photos.
“Those are amazing,” I tell her honestly. “You’re really good.”
She ignores the compliment, but I think she’s secretly pleased. She glances down. “It’s no big deal.”
“Are you done yet?” Nonna asks. “I’m hungry.” She scoops up a fig and pops it into her mouth without waiting for a reply. “Buonissimi!” She beams at me. “Delicious.” She eats another one.
I try a fig too. Yep, delicious.
Alex is looking longingly at the snack, which is not vegetarian-friendly since it’s wrapped in salted meat. I set out a small plate I made just for her, all the yummy things sans the meat.
“Oh,” she says in a small, surprised voice. “Thanks.”
“Thanks for helping with the photos,” I tell her, taking a chair across the table.
She nibbles one of the figs, brow furrowed into an assessing scowl. A moment later she takes a bigger bite. “Pretty good,” she admits. Her faint praise makes me feel a little gleeful. Even Alex likes it.
“One down, forty-nine to go,” I announce to no one in particular.
Alex pauses. “Forty-nine what?”
I explain about the cookbook and needing fifty good, personal recipes.
I don’t tell her everything. I don’t mention Drew or Keith or my plan to save the show.
I just explain about my contract and deadline.
When I’m done, she’s quiet for a moment, then offers, “I can take photos of each of the recipes you make, if you want me to.” She says it in an offhanded way, like she couldn’t care less either way.
“Really?” I hear the eagerness in my own voice.
“Are you sure?” I try not to appear desperate, but I am.
For the first time since finding that the recipe book is completely blank, I feel a small spark of hope.
Maybe all is not lost. With Nonna and Alex’s help, I might have a chance, even without the recipe book.
Could we really meet the deadline if we work together?
“I mean, it’s not like I’ve got anything else to do this summer,” Alex says dryly.
“That would be amazing.” I sit back in relief. Her photos are really good. “How about I pay you in vegetarian-friendly snacks?”
She gazes at me for a moment with those cool gray eyes, then pops a whole fig in her mouth. “Deal,” she says, cheeks bulging. We shake on it.