Chapter 32
“Follow Lorenzo so you are not crushed in the crowd,” Nonna calls back over her shoulder to Alex and me as we squeeze down another narrow street in the old town center of Lazise early in the afternoon on the day of the festival. “He is making a path for us.”
Together with Nonna, Alex, and Lorenzo, I weave my way through the narrow, winding streets.
The tiny walled town is packed with revelers celebrating the Luce del Sole festival.
It seems as though everyone around Lake Garda has turned up today.
Lorenzo had to park the Fiat Panda ten blocks away, and now we are making our way to the cooking contest pavilion that’s been erected in a square near the lakefront.
“Are you okay?” Alex asks, eyeing me as I struggle to keep hold of a large pot of Strangolapreti, a local gnocchi-like dumpling dish that is one of Nonna’s specialties.
Yesterday she taught me how to make her specific recipe, which she swears is the best in Italy.
Today I made the recipe again on my own to comply with the competition rules.
“So far so good.” I nod and grip the pot more tightly.
Created by blending stale breadcrumbs, spinach, and Grana Padano cheese, these oddly yummy little dumplings are boiled in salted water and then coated in a browned butter and crispy sage sauce.
The smell coming from the pot is mouthwatering.
No wonder the name translates roughly to “priest-choker,” an allusion to a dish so tasty the local clergy would indulge in it until they choked.
I’m feeling tentatively optimistic about my entry.
It’s the one pasta dish Dad made every year on his birthday without fail.
Nonna told me it was what he requested every year for his birthday dinner when he was growing up.
After he moved to the US and had us, he still tried to recreate it on that special day.
I think he’d be proud of my efforts today.
Nicolo is supposed to meet us here, but there is no sign of him yet.
I find I’m keeping an eye out for him. Stop it!
I scold myself silently as I follow Lorenzo, who is shouldering his beefy way through the crowd.
I concentrate on not dropping my entry for the contest as we squeeze through narrow passageways.
So what if Nicolo is hot? A hot Italian neighbor with great hair who used to be a boy I loved fiercely.
So what if he is funny and intelligent and kind?
So what if he makes my heart stutter in my chest?
It doesn’t mean anything. I’m not staying in Italy past the summer.
There could never be anything between us.
It’s a lost cause with an old flame. I make myself focus on something else, but I keep craning my neck looking for that familiar broad-shouldered figure.
“Che palle, so crowded,” Nonna complains, coming to a stop when a group of young men jostle in front of her rudely. I halt just before running into her, clasping the pot and its precious contents to my chest. If I spill, I’ll have nothing to enter into the contest.
“Hey, idioti!” Lorenzo turns and shouts when he sees the boys blocking Nonna’s way.
He lays into them, gesturing angrily, and after a moment of being scolded by a large, angry white-haired man bristling with righteous indignation, the young men meekly plaster themselves against a wall of the narrow street and let us pass.
Lorenzo sweeps his arm in an invitation for Nonna, and she moves through the open space he’s made, clutching her purse to her chest, head held high.
The more I see them together, the more I suspect that I am right about Lorenzo’s feelings for Nonna.
I just don’t have any idea if she’s aware of them, and she doesn’t seem to reciprocate them as far as I can tell.
The dynamics of their relationship are a mystery to me.
We parade down the narrow cobblestone street, Lorenzo clearing the way and the rest of us following.
“Buongiorno,” a familiar voice says close to my ear. I jump, shriek, and clutch the pot. It’s Nicolo. He chuckles and steadies me with a hand on my elbow.
“I didn’t meet to startle you,” he tells me, his dark eyes merry. He greets everyone in our group and falls into step next to me, casually using his body to block anyone who would get too close to me.
“Are you ready for the contest?” Nicolo asks, matching my stride.
Today he’s wearing pale beige slim-cut trousers, a light blue button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned one button lower than American men dare to wear, and he’s got a lightweight navy blazer thrown over one shoulder.
His shoes are a gorgeous caramel leather loafer, pointy toed.
Combined with gold sunglasses, he looks like a movie star or some sort of minor Italian royalty.
I’d forgotten how gorgeous Italian men can be when they’re dressed to go out.
On an American, the outfit would look almost ridiculous, but Nicolo pulls it off with an effortless confidence, comfortable in his own skin.
It’s quite a change from the earnest young man with a hint of a mustache who gave me my first awkward kiss under the olive trees.
Now he’s grown fully into a very attractive, very confident man.
I glance at Nicolo and stumble on an uneven cobblestone in my impractical but super cute white wedge sandals.
Immediately, Nicolo is there, one strong hand clasped firmly around my upper arm, the other circling my waist. He pulls me gently upright.
“Careful,” he says. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “Thanks.” My cheeks flame. I’m more unsteady with his arm around me than on my own.
“May I?” He offers to take the pot, but I decline. I want to carry the heavy warmth of it myself. I glance down and concentrate on navigating the cobblestones before me. I need to pay more attention to the path and less to the man beside me, no matter how dashing he looks today.
We pass a band playing traditional music, and rows and rows of booths selling local wares.
Pizza and focaccia, local honey, sausages and cheeses, a cart with gelato, handmade soaps and lotions, embroidered tea towels.
The offerings seem endless. Every street is crowded with people—tourists and locals alike—jostling and laughing and yelling. It’s happy chaos.
Finally, we reach the small plaza tucked away to one side of the town, overlooking the lakefront.
There is a line of entrants for the cooking contest, which starts at two p.m. I check my phone.
Ten minutes to spare. Nicolo suggests he take Alex to get a scoop of gelato while I check in, promising to return for me in a few minutes.
Lorenzo opts to go with them. Nonna stays with me.
After I check in, I take my numbered ticket and we wander around the tables holding the other contest entries.
I jot down a few ideas surreptitiously as Nonna offers a critical commentary on the various dishes on display.
She would have made a great judge on one of those TV cooking shows.
She’s both hilarious and difficult to please.
There are some delicious local specialties from polenta with lake pike to a fragrant savory stew made with ham, potatoes, and beans.
I write down the names of any dishes that I recognize, hoping that I will remember some personal connection or anecdote about some of them if I have a moment to sit and think.
Nicolo and Alex reappear with gelato and we leave the contest area.
The winner will be announced this evening before the free concert.
Until that time we can wander around and enjoy the festival.
Lorenzo peels off with Nonna to see a friend of his, a truffle hunter from the mountains, which leaves Nicolo, Alex, and me to amuse ourselves until the contest winner is announced.
Sticking together, we wander down the lakefront until I spy a booth selling peach granitas.
“Oooh.” I make a beeline for the booth. “Alex, you have to try this. It was my favorite thing to eat at the festival when I was younger.” I get in line, excited to have her try the delicious cold treat.
Even though she’s just finished her gelato, Alex gamely joins me.
Nicolo is right behind us. I nudge Alex excitedly.
“Hey, look who’s in the booth.” It’s the cute dark-eyed boy from the market a few weeks ago.
He’s taking orders and payments and I can tell he’s noticed Alex.
He keeps darting glances at her while he’s serving other customers. It’s adorable.
Alex rolls her eyes at me, but her cheeks turn a very pretty shade of pink. I think she’s pleased. It’s a sweet little burst of color amid her monochromatic outfit of black ripped jeans, black punk T-shirt, and thick black Doc Martens. How is she not melting in this heat?
When it’s our turn, I start to translate the few menu items for her, but she cuts me off with an “I’ve got it, thanks.
” A minute later she gives her order in surprisingly passable Italian.
The young man blushes bright red. I gaze at her in amazement.
“When did you learn Italian? You’ve been holding out on us. ”
She shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I’m learning through one of those online apps. You mentioned it, and I thought it would be cool.”
So that’s what she’s been doing on her phone mumbling to herself all the time! All the pieces finally click into place. I thought she was mouthing song lyrics or talking to someone back home or…something. But she’s been learning Italian. I’m impressed.
“Your Italian is pretty good,” I tell her.
“Thanks.” She scuffs the toe of her Doc Martens on the dusty road. “It’s not hard to learn, and I have a lot of time on my hands. I’ve been doing like twenty lessons a day.”
Nicolo insists on paying for the granitas and steps up to the counter. The boy hands Nicolo two granitas but then reaches out and gives Alex hers personally. She murmurs her thanks in Italian.
“Mi chiamo Tommaso,” he blurts out.
Nicolo and I exchange an amused look behind Alex’s back.
“Mi chiamo…Alex,” she replies. They gaze at each other for a moment, then Alex abruptly turns and hurries away from the booth. Nicolo and I follow at a more leisurely pace, grinning.
“Ah, young love,” Nicolo observes with a wry smile. “Were we that awkward?”
“Probably.” I scoop a big spoonful of my peach granita into my mouth. “I think it’s adorable.”
Made with local peaches, it is a Lake Garda delicacy, icy cold and sweet and bursting with ripe peach flavor. Why does everything taste better in Italy? Is it the water? The joy people take in eating good food? Or is it because the happiest moments of my life have all been here?
“Thank you for the granitas,” I tell Nicolo, my tongue thick and clumsy with cold.
He inclines his head modestly. “My pleasure. How are you feeling about the contest?” He scoops up a spoonful of his granita as we wander closer to the marina.
The day is blue and cloudless, gorgeous, and the sun sparkles on the water.
The sailboats bob in a light breeze. For a moment, everything feels perfect and golden.
I shrug. “I don’t think I’ll win, and in a way it doesn’t matter.
I entered to be brave. Nonna challenged me not to let fear hold me back from taking risks that are worth it.
I’ve spent so many years avoiding risk, afraid of failure.
I entered this contest as a way to take a little risk.
So being here is a win. Whatever happens, I will already have won.
” It’s a wonderful feeling. I take another big scoop of granita and smile.
Nicolo taps his cup of granita against mine. “Here’s to worthwhile risks,” he says. We toast.