Chapter 24
“How is this? Like this? Make sure my nose doesn’t look so big.”
The next morning, I come downstairs, tired from my late-night chat with Aurora but ready to get started on cooking only to find the kitchen empty.
The kitchen door is standing open, however, and I hear Nonna’s voice coming from outside.
Yawning, I wander out into the morning sunshine to find Nonna and Alex in the courtyard.
Nonna is dressed in her usual knee-length skirt and blouse, with her hair scraped back in its severe bun.
But she’s wearing burgundy lipstick and her one good strand of pearls, like she’s going to Mass.
Alex is holding her phone up and appears to be filming her.
“What’s going on?” I squint in the bright sunshine.
It’s already warm and growing hotter by the minute.
The air is alive with twittering birds and the scent of sun-warmed rocks and green living things and crumbly earth.
No sign of Lorenzo or Nicolo, although I am wearing a cute lime-green shirtwaist dress just in case.
“We are making a video to share the beauty of our farm and this region with people on the Internet,” Nonna says, never taking her eyes from the camera. “Alessandra is going to put the videos on the TikTok.”
The TikTok? “What’s happening?” I’m confused. Nonna is making TikTok videos with Alex? The woman doesn’t even own a computer.
Alex shrugs. “We’re making videos so people can see how a real Italian olive farm works. It’s cool. People love this kind of stuff.”
I’m surprised. Just a few days ago Alex seemed to think nothing was cool, this farm included, so this is an interesting shift.
Bemused, I head back inside in search of coffee.
Maybe this day will make more sense with caffeine.
Then I need to start brainstorming more recipes.
I’ve managed to make three recipes so far, which is encouraging, but now I’ve got no idea what to make next.
I need help. Hopefully, Nonna has some bright ideas.
Aurora texted me some dishes she remembers making, but I skimmed the short list and nothing stood out to me.
However, there was a hopeful email from Michelle waiting for me when I woke up.
This is exactly what Epicure is looking for , she wrote. Keep up the good work. Send more when you have it.
So that’s positive. At least now I know what they want and I can theoretically provide it. Time to get cooking! I make myself an espresso and head back outside to see if Nonna can help me. They seem to be wrapping up their video shoot.
“So why are you doing these videos?” I pause in the doorway and lean against the heavy wood frame, sipping my espresso.
“To share the beauty of our home and this land.” Nonna sweeps her hand across the horizon, across the gray-green flutter of olive leaves rustling in the breeze, down toward the blue shimmer of the lake.
“We are blessed to live in such a place. Seven generations have cared for these groves. I want others to understand why it is important to us, what is so special about the place we call home.”
Alex is reviewing the video footage she shot, hunched over her phone. She looks up from the screen. “I think that’s good for now,” she says. “We got what we need for the first video. We can show them the inside of the house tomorrow. I’ll create the account today and do the first post.”
“Come, it’s time to eat.” Nonna herds us into the kitchen.
“Nonna is going to have a TikTok account?” I ask Alex quietly as we head back inside.
She shrugs. “She asked me to. She said she wants to show people what life is like here on the farm before it’s gone.”
“Gone?” That’s a worrisome word.
Alex shrugs again. “Don’t ask me. I just told her I’d help her post the videos.”
I sit down at the round table, catty-corner from Alex, trying to puzzle out what Nonna could mean.
There is no sign of Lorenzo or Nicolo. I wonder where they are.
Probably already in the groves working. Or maybe Nicolo is at the Fiore estate today.
Nonna told me he comes by when he has time to spare.
Nonna sets breakfast in front of us, waving away my attempts to help.
“I’ve waited many years to have you sitting again at this table, Nipote.
Give me the satisfaction of feeding you, yes? ”
I acquiesce and munch a couple of our homemade biscotti dipped in my espresso, the hard almond cookies softening slightly in the bitter brew.
I watch Nonna carefully, mulling over Nicolo’s words about the state of the farm.
Across from me, Alex is working her way through a few biscotti, crunching so loudly it sounds like she’s chewing gravel.
I can’t tell if she likes them. Her face looks pinched but she keeps chewing.
Since our trip to the market that first day here, she seems to be more open to trying new things.
I think she might be enjoying her time in Italy more than she cares to admit.
Nonna sits down heavily with a gusty sigh. “Today is the day, Juliana,” she announces, taking a sip of her espresso.
“For what?” I ask.
“For you to find your creativity again. I can feel it, in here.” She taps her broad bosom. “It is a day for miracles.”
I frown. “I wish it were that easy.”
She gives me a look of surprise and disapproval.
“Who said anything about easy?” she asks with a wave of her hand, dismissing my words.
“Few things in life are easy, not if they’re worth anything.
You should know this by now, mia cara. Life isn’t easy, but we don’t just roll over and give up.
We struggle and persevere. Sometimes we lose and sometimes we triumph.
But you can never win a fight you don’t show up for in the first place.
” She looks down her nose sternly at me.
I nod, chastened. She’s right. It may be hard, but yesterday I proved it was possible. I take a deep breath. “Okay then, let’s do this.” Three down. Forty-seven recipes to go.
She holds up a hand, waving me back down into my seat. “First we finish our espresso, then we make a miracle.”
A half hour later, I’m standing at the heavy prep table in the middle of the kitchen, staring once more at an array of ingredients spread before me—rice, a wedge of Parmesan, fresh tomatoes, a bunch of basil.
I’m trying to tamp down my panic and summon some creative juices by sheer force of will, but nothing is coming to me.
I even checked the recipe book again this morning, hoping something had changed.
Still blank. I guess I’m on my own. I was so hopeful after the success of the past couple of days that I was going to be able to unlock so many more memories, but currently, I feel like I’m back to square one.
I rub fragrant basil from Nonna’s herb garden between my fingers, inhaling the aroma rising from the crushed leaf.
I look around the kitchen, desperate for inspiration.
I spent years in this kitchen cooking with Nonna, but now those memories have all deserted me.
When I try to concentrate, I run up against the blankness again.
Can you have selective amnesia? Is that a real thing?
I try hard to focus on dinners Dad liked, but attempting to corral my thoughts and recall those specific memories makes me feel itchy and a little panicky inside, like my brain is shying away from them. I don’t know what to do.
Alex has disappeared upstairs with her phone in hand. It’s just me and Nonna now. She’s standing at the sink watching me from the corner of her eye. She comes over to me and places her hand gently over mine. “Mia cara, what is the matter?” she asks. “What are you so afraid of?”
I shake my head, trying to formulate my answer. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
Her forehead creases and she gazes at me in sympathy. “I remember you, from the time you were small, standing at this table, your eager little face looking up at me so expectantly. You couldn’t wait to help me. Every day we cooked together, all those years. You were not afraid then. What changed?”
How do I explain what I don’t entirely understand myself?
“I think it might have something to do with Dad,” I blurt out. “It all changed when Dad died.”
Nonna’s face wrinkles in confusion. “My Tony? What does his passing have to do with your cooking?”
I take a deep breath and try to trace this panicky, itchy feeling all the way back. Where had it first started? After Dad’s death, I know that. Reluctantly, I think back to the afternoon my father drowned. I close my eyes and concentrate, forcing myself to remember every painful detail.
That day I was making La Torta de Fregoloti for the first time by myself.
A local cake made with almonds, grappa, and a lot of butter, it was my dad’s favorite dessert.
I was making it as a surprise for his birthday.
He was turning fifty the next day. He’d invited me to go swimming down at the lake, our almost daily tradition, but I’d declined, wanting to make the cake instead.
It was a decision I’ll regret for the rest of my life.
I was whipping the butter and egg yolks together, adding the salt and grappa under Nonna’s watchful eye.
She gave occasional instructions, but mostly let me do it myself.
It was late afternoon and the kitchen was hot, the shutters and windows open.
Everything felt slow and golden and perfect.
I was so excited to make my dad something he liked so much and proud that I was making it all myself.
I planned on serving it with whipped cream and a sprinkle of toasted hazelnuts.
It was my gift to him. After all, he was my favorite person in the world.
I was holding the mixing bowl over the buttered cake pan, scooping the batter into the pan in big plops, when the door crashed open. Lorenzo stood there in the doorway, breathing heavily. His face was ashen, his eyes panicked. I’d never seen him look like that. “It’s Tony,” he gasped. “Hurry.”
And just like that, my world collapsed.
Late that night, when we came back from the hospital, numb and in shock, we found the raw batter still waiting in the pan. Wordlessly, Nonna scraped the batter into the trash can. I never made that cake again. The smell of grappa still makes me feel a little sick.
“That birthday cake was the last thing I made that was connected to Dad,” I confess to Nonna, feeling puzzled, as though an answer is sitting just beyond my fingertips.
I feel like I’m just starting to put the pieces together.
“I think…I think after he was gone it was just too painful to think about him, about losing him. Cooking a recipe that reminded me of him brought all those feelings back up.” I had not been able to articulate this before now, but when I say the words, they feel true.
Nonna frowns. “But don’t you want to remember him?
” she asks gently. “Cooking those recipes can help us feel close to those we’ve loved and lost. They connect us to the past, to the generations that came before us, to those who have gone on ahead.
The recipes we make together, Juliana, they help us honor and remember.
I still cook Carlo’s favorite pasta every year on our anniversary.
It helps me celebrate him and the love we shared.
Your father loved you, Juliana, so very much.
You had many happy years together here, so many meals, so much joy.
Why do you want to block all that from your mind?
” Her brow is furrowed in puzzlement. She really doesn’t understand.
I clear my throat trying to swallow the aching knot stuck there. “Yes, but Carlo died of a heart attack. It wasn’t your fault.” It’s hard to get the words out.
Nonna looks confused for a long moment, then her face clears with understanding. “You think Tony’s death was your fault?” she murmurs. “But why?”
I hang my head, not looking at her. “He asked me to go swimming with him that day, but I said no.” I murmur the confession, soft enough she has to lean forward to hear me.
“I wanted to surprise him with the cake I made.” I clear my throat again.
All these years later, it’s still so painful to recall that afternoon.
All these years I’ve never spoken the words aloud, but I’ve felt the shame of them, the crush of guilt, since the day he died.
“I remember that cake,” Nonna says, her gaze far away. “His favorite. You were going to surprise him.”
I sniff. “He never even got to taste it. I chose a stupid cake over time with him, over the last time with him. And maybe if I’d been there with him, if I’d said yes and gone swimming with him, I could have saved him…
but I didn’t. It was more important to me to finish that cake than to spend time with my dad, and now he’s gone. ” My voice cracks.
Nonna is staring at me in consternation. “Juliana, you think if you had not made the cake your father would still be here? You think you could have saved him if you had gone swimming with him?” She looks astonished.
I nod, eyes brimming with hot tears. Even now, even after all these years, it is still agonizing to think of that day.
I miss my father every day, living with the ache low in the center of my chest, the space where once I’d felt his love and presence, where I’d felt safe and strong.
Now it just feels cold and dead, hollowed out with guilt and grief.
I’d give anything to go back and make a different choice.
“Oh, Juliana.” Nonna reaches up and cups my cheek in her gnarled hand. “Nothing could have stopped what happened. Your father had a massive heart attack while he was swimming. Nothing could have saved him.”
“What?” I step back, shaking my head. “No, that was Carlo. Carlo had the heart attack. Dad drowned in the lake. I saw him after they pulled him out of the water.”
Nonna looks surprised. “That’s what it looked like at first, yes,” she says patiently, “but the medical report after his death said that was not true. He had a heart attack while he was swimming and died instantly. Just like Carlo.”