Chapter 44
“What are we waiting around for?” Violetta demands impatiently. “We’re not getting any younger.”
It’s nine a.m. the next morning and Nonna Bruna, Alex, Nicolo, Violetta, and I are gathered in Nonna’s kitchen, crowded around the prep table where the cookbook lies waiting for us.
The only person missing is Lorenzo, who left for Udine yesterday while I was at the Fiores’.
Apparently, he’s gone to help his sister with an urgent plumbing problem at her restaurant. He is due back sometime today.
“We have to open the cookbook together at the same time,” Nonna reminds us. “And then we’ll see if it gives us the recipe for Orange Blossom Cake.”
Dutifully, all of us (except Alex, who has decided to video everything and not participate herself) lay our hands on the cookbook. My hand is next to Nicolo’s and his fingers brush mine. He looks delectable today in a cream-colored linen shirt and olive trousers with leather boat shoes.
“Now we open the book together,” Nonna explains. “I will count to three. Uno. Due. Tre.” She opens the book slowly as we all manage to keep contact with it. I draw a quick breath. There is a recipe waiting for us.
“Mamma mia!” Nonna breathes reverently. I peer anxiously down at the cookbook. The recipe for Orange Blossom Cake is sitting there whole on the page.
“Non ci credo,” Violetta gasps, looking astonished.
I don’t believe it either. Apparently, it is our time to make this recipe. Alex hovers close by, recording everything.
“The cookbook is never wrong,” Nonna says briskly. “Now we make the cake…together.”
Nonna gathers the dry ingredients and puts us to work on the rest. Nicolo measures out a cup of the best olive oil from our trees, pouring out a stream of pale shimmering green.
Violetta purees a whole orange, and the fragrance of the pulped peel and juice fills the kitchen.
Alex circles around us, videoing our group effort.
I combine sugar and eggs, beating them with Nonna’s ancient electric mixer, which makes alarming grinding sounds but gets the job done eventually.
The sun is shining on the courtyard and streaming in through the open kitchen door.
Nonna has the radio on, turned down low as a tenor croons ballads in Italian.
All is peaceful and productive. When the sugary egg mixture is fluffy, Nicolo slowly pours in the olive oil.
Violetta adds her orange juice and zest and I dump in a half cup of milk and a few tablespoons of orange liqueur.
The batter gradually turns a beautiful golden color.
Nonna has measured out the dry ingredients and slowly adds them next—the flour, baking powder, and salt.
As a last step, I spoon a brimming tablespoon of orange blossom extract into the bowl and stir.
“This is the magic cake?” Alex asks dubiously, peering at the slightly lumpy golden batter. She is busy snapping photos and recording. I sniff the batter, savoring the sweet, delicate aroma of orange blossom extract and the unctuous aroma of good olive oil.
“You sure this is all there is to it?” I ask Nonna. “It just seems too simple.”
“Simple can be just as good as complex,” Nonna says serenely as she whips up a simple sugar and orange zest icing to pour over the cake when it’s done.
“Often it’s better. Life doesn’t have to be so complicated.
It doesn’t need to twist you into knots.
Often the best choice is the simple one. Simple is beautiful.”
“Okay then.” I carry the cake pan to the oven and Nicolo opens the oven door for me. Alex hovers at my shoulder, recording and narrating. I slide the pan into the oven and set the timer on my phone. Now we wait.
Nonna makes caffellattes for Nicolo, Alex, and me.
She and Violetta drink espresso—black and strong—served with small glasses of water to cleanse their palates.
We sit on the patio under the olive trees and drink our coffee, chatting a little nervously, counting down the minutes until the timer dings.
Finally, it does and we all breathe a sigh of relief.
Wordlessly, we crowd into the kitchen. Nonna pulls out the cake and sets it on the prep table. We gather round eagerly.
“It just looks like a normal cake.” Alex sounds slightly disappointed. It’s wafting the most delicate, delectable aroma of oranges and orange blossoms, and my mouth waters. Alex lifts her camera and takes a few photos as I test the cake for doneness. I slide the knife from the center. It’s ready.
“Now we will try it together,” Nonna instructs.
I leave the cake on the table to cool a little and help gather small plates and forks.
Nicolo and Violetta offer to set the table on the patio.
I eye the cake as I pass by. Somehow the thought of taking that first bite feels daunting.
What if I don’t like what I see? What if it surprises me?
I feel a flutter of anxious anticipation.
Will the Orange Blossom Cake really show me something?
Perhaps me standing in a professional soundstage kitchen filming an episode of The Bygone Kitchen for Netflix?
Or accepting a Taste Award or a Daytime Emmy for the show’s creative success?
Or is it possible that it will be something else entirely?
I cast a quick glance out the window at Nicolo on the patio.
I’m nervous yet eager for the cake to give me some guidance, to show me if I am choosing the right hard thing.
Finally, Nonna deems everything ready. I carefully remove the cake from the pan, first putting an upside-down plate over the top of the cake pan and then flipping it over quickly. I tap the bottom of the pan gently and feel the cake release with a soundless plop onto the plate.
Almost instantly, an image flashes through my mind.
I am standing in one of our olive groves, dressed in work clothes and boots.
The air is crisp and the sun bright on the silvery leaves.
Tarps are spread below each tree. It’s harvest time, probably mid-November, just before the winter chill sets in.
There is a man standing across from me, wearing gloves and operating an electric rake.
He’s carefully combing the higher branches of the tree while I harvest the low-hanging fruit by hand.
When he turns and looks at me, the late-afternoon sunlight makes an aureole of gold around his dark curls, illuminating him clearly.
It’s Nicolo. He pauses combing the branches, olives falling gently down around him like fat raindrops.
He smiles at me and I feel my heart leap.
“Tesoro mio,” he says, his voice tender. He holds out his hand and I move toward him eagerly…
“Juliana?” Nonna’s questioning voice jerks me rudely back to the present. I blink uncertainly and take a quick, sharp breath.
Nonna gives me an odd look. “Are you all right?” she asks.
I nod. “Sorry, my mind wandered there for a second.” I glance down and lift the cake pan off the cake. It is perfect, golden and moist-looking.
“Where did you wander?” Nonna asks, searching my face.
“Nowhere,” I tell her honestly. “I was right here on the farm.” And it’s true…but still, it felt different. It felt…satisfying. What an unexpected word, but it’s the right one.
I take a quick peek at the cake. Could it be a coincidence that I had that vivid daydream just as I took the cake from the pan? Was it just my mind playing tricks on me? I shake off the prickle down my spine at the memory of Nicolo’s eyes on me, the look on his face, radiant with love.
Alex wanders into the kitchen, looking at her phone.
“People are going crazy over those magical cake recipe videos I posted this morning. They’ve gotten so many shares already.
” She looks gleeful. “And the viral one from yesterday is still going strong. It’s been viewed over two hundred thousand times already! ”
I don’t completely love the idea of posting about the cookbook on social media. It feels a little too personal, sacred to our family. But Alex is excited, and the numbers are certainly impressive. I don’t have the heart to quench her enthusiasm. It’s good to see her excited about something.
Nicolo pokes his head in the kitchen. “All is ready out here,” he says, meeting my eyes with a swift, intense look.
“One last step.” Nonna pours the icing over the cake and smooths it with a knife. The icing is shiny and the palest shade of yellow with bits of orange zest giving it tiny, bright pops of color. “Now it’s time,” Nonna says, looking satisfied.
“Ready?” I smile at Nicolo, remembering the thrill of him holding out his hand to me in the olive grove. It was a daydream, but the sensation of contentment is still pulsing in my chest like a little ray of sunshine. I carefully pick up the cake plate and head outside.
It’s time to see what happiness awaits us.