Chapter 31
The next few weeks pass in enjoyable productivity.
Each day after a light breakfast of pastries and caffellatte, Nonna and I brainstorm the day’s recipes, then shop for and make one to three dishes, depending on their complexity.
We break for a leisurely lunch or dinner to enjoy the fruits of our labors.
In the evenings, I stay in my room writing up the recipes and the personal reflections to go with each one.
It is a lovely, predictable, gentle pace of life.
Until Nonna goes and throws a wrench into the plan.
It starts one morning when I find Nonna and Lorenzo drinking espressos on the patio, heads together, deep in conversation.
They look like they’re plotting something.
Alex is nowhere to be seen. Probably still sleeping.
Lorenzo greets me heartily and Nonna rises and kisses me on both cheeks, announcing, “Buongiorno, Juliana. I hope you are ready for a challenge today.”
“A challenge?” I raise an eyebrow. I need a lot of things but a challenge is not one of them. I’ve got enough of those.
Nonna nods firmly. “To help you strengthen your courage and face your fears.” She sips her espresso and eyes me in a satisfied way.
“What do you have in mind?” I ask warily, sinking into a chair across from her. I have a bad feeling about this. There is already a caffellatte waiting for me along with a custard-filled cornetto. I take a hesitant sip of the coffee.
“You remember the Luce del Sole festival in Lazise?” Nonna asks casually. “Tony used to take you when you were little. It is a festival to celebrate the summertime.”
The light of the sun festival. I close my eyes briefly, memories flooding back.
Me riding on Dad’s shoulders as he wove his way through crowds of Italians eating and drinking local delicacies on the beautiful shores of Lazise, a tiny, historic walled city on the lake just south of Bardolino.
I remember contentedly sitting in the hot sun next to Dad as he hummed along to a local band.
We’d share a plate of misto, a mixture of battered and fried pieces of lake fish, served with polenta.
Afterward Dad would sip a glass of light red wine from Bardolino, and I would devour a cup of granita made with local peaches, deliciously icy and cold on a hot summer day.
But most of all I remember how happy I felt at the festival, everyone crowded together, celebrating summer, celebrating the joy of being alive in such a beautiful place.
“I loved that festival,” I murmur.
Nonna nods, looking pleased. “You did. Your father loved it too. Do you remember the cooking contest they have every year as part of the festival, to determine the best local dish?”
“Didn’t you win that one year?” I interject.
“Two years in a row,” Nonna says airily. “But now I have retired from contests. I am too old. It is time for another Costa to carry on the tradition.”
I have a sudden suspicion I know where this is going.
“It is a highly sought-after competition, with only a few dozen spots. Just this morning someone had to drop out because of a family emergency. She offered her spot to me,” Nonna says. “But since I am retired”—she shrugs nonchalantly—“I told told them you would do it.”
I almost spew a mouthful of caffellatte across the table. “You want me to compete in the cooking contest?” I gasp. “I can’t go up against all the local Italian grandmas. They’re incredible cooks. I’ll get creamed!”
Nonna shrugs, unconcerned. “It will be good for you. Maybe you need a little push, hmm? Remember, a life free of fear? You can make the recipe you’re most proud of, and see what happens. Who knows, maybe you will win?”
I highly doubt that. “I don’t have time to enter a contest!” I argue, feeling panicked at the thought of trying to come up with a winning dish. “I’ve got enough on my plate already.”
“You can’t back out now,” Nonna argues calmly. “I already gave them your name. Everyone knows about your Internet cooking show. If you turn down the invitation, you’ll bring shame upon our family.”
Oooh, she’s sneaky, playing the “shame the family” card.
I glare at her. Nonna sips her espresso placidly.
She missed a career as a high-stakes negotiator somewhere along the line.
She could have excelled at hostage negotiations.
I hesitate, feeling neatly trapped. I think of Aurora telling me I needed to shake up my life.
Right now my life feels like a soda bottle that’s been dropped down several flights of stairs.
I certainly don’t need anything else to shake it up.
“Maybe the competition will give you good ideas,” Lorenzo interjects. “Lots of cooks, lots of local food.” He gives me a sympathetic look.
I sigh. He’s got a point. So does Nonna.
I am trying to be courageous, to embrace opportunities and not close myself off because I’m afraid.
And I have so many happy memories at that festival with my dad.
Maybe I’ll get some good inspiration. I still need more recipes for the cookbook.
I waver for a moment. Maybe this is a good opportunity, even if it seems intimidating.
Am I brave enough to do something so far outside my comfort zone?
“Okay,” I agree, deciding to be bold. “I have a few recipes I was already planning to make in the next couple of days anyway. I guess I can just make one of them for the contest but”—I hold up a finger warningly—“I am not responsible if I bring shame upon the family by coming in last place.”
Nonna nods in satisfaction. “Good. And you will not bring shame on us. I have faith in you.”
“When is the festival?” I ask, nibbling the corner of my cornetto. “How long do I have to prepare?”
“You’d better get started,” Nonna advises me. “The contest is in two days.”