15. Keith #3
I offered my hand for a shake but she took it like she expected me to kiss the top of her hand, so I rolled with it.
Normally, I would feel like that was a power move, but given the way the woman beamed at me, it was probably a cultural thing.
If I played things right, eventually I’d be kissing people’s cheeks to greet them.
“What a gentleman! And so handsome too! Why you hide him from us so long, mio tesoro?”
I knew that one! My treasure. Aww, that was a sweet nickname.
“Mamaaaa, you’re embarrassing me.”
“Si, it is my job. Now—”
“Oi, is he here?” A deep, booming voice sounded from down the hall, and a door swung open.
A man, who had to be the family patriarch I had been told so much about, stepped inside.
With the door open, I heard the tail end of a flush, and I couldn’t help but be impressed at what kind of insulation the walls had for their bathrooms to be that soundproof.
Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t hear the people in the dining room. I didn’t know if the effect was intentional, but it really showed the difference that old school, quality materials made over modern cardboard and cheap plastics.
“He’s been here, Papa,” Rolando said, popping in from a different door. It always surprised me how nimbly Rolando moved. He was almost as tall as me, and judging from his dart game, even stronger, but he was light on his feet. “You ready to eat?”
Olivia’s father patted his old man gut, which wasn’t even that much of a gut. More of a bulge to show a life well lived and meals enjoyed. “When aren’t I?”
His gaze landed on me. There I saw Olivia’s eyes and her nose, as well as that part in her gaze she had when she was observing everything she could about something.
So, that was where she got it from.
“You’re tall,” he said, and I finally noticed that his accent, while still present, was notably different from most of the other older people I’d met so far.
Given his backstory of being in America the longest, and coming to our country as the youngest, it made sense.
I couldn’t imagine what that had been like for him.
What a journey he’d had. Maybe, if I got on his good side, I could sit down with him and have him tell me about all the trials and victories he’d had in bringing his family over and building up a thriving business. It was inspiring, really.
“You know, I had an idea that maybe that was the case, but you all are convincing me.” I grinned when I heard a giddy giggle from Mama Rizoli. I didn’t need a social map to know that was a victory, because I had no doubt that Mr. Enzo Rizoli followed the mantra “happy wife, happy life”.
“Ah, there is mia bella, mio cuore!” the man declared before hurrying past me to draw his wife into his arms. That was when I knew without a doubt I was one hundred percent right. There was something about old school love that was just so… classic.
“Cucciolo! I am right here as I have been, and as I was fifteen minutes ago when you last saw me!” the woman objected as he peppered kisses all along the side of her face, not too unlike from how Olivia had “affectionately smothered” me.
“Fifteen minutes is too long to be without your beautiful face, you know this!” he retorted before planting a kiss on top of her thick hair. “Now that our guest is here, let’s eat, yeah?”
The doorbell rang again.
I could see Rolando wanted to sigh, but to his credit, he didn’t. “I’ll get that,” he said, then hurried off again.
“Should we wait for him?” I asked as we sat.
“Please, he’s a teenager. Consider this a head start before he comes back and inhales everything,” Olivia said in a tone that told me she wasn’t exaggerating. At all.
Ah, I remembered those years.
Except we couldn’t really afford to feed the endless hunger that came with my rapidly expanding frame, so those binges usually had to wait until I was at an event with free food or my mom saved enough to treat the two of us to an AYCE buffet.
“That’s a good point.” I picked up my silverware and waited to see whether it was a help-myself situation or if I should wait to be served. However, it turned out to be a mysterious third option where Olivia and her parents joined hands around the table and bowed their heads to pray.
Whoops.
I set my utensils down and took Olivia’s hand, bowing my head as Enzo began to rattle off in hushed Italian.
I wasn’t offended or even uncomfortable by religious tradition, but I wondered what he was saying.
I swore I caught some words like luna, mangiare, and famiglia, but that was about it.
Certainly not enough to figure out if they were Catholic, Protestant, or even Jewish really.
I’d ask Olivia on the drive home if we weren’t both completely exhausted.
“Amen,” Enzo said finally with the rest of us repeating after him.
“Amen.”
“Amen,” Rolando chimed in, sliding in through the doorway. “Finally, time to—”
The doorbell rang again.
He stood very still for a moment, his face a blank mask as he breathed in and out before he addressed his parents. “Is there anyone you didn’t invite over this afternoon?”
“Oi now, we no invite anyone!” Mr. Rizoli objected. “Your mother made the mistake of spilling the beans to my sister, so the wolf was, as you say, let out of the bag.”
“I’m sorry, Olivia. I did not mean to. It was only that I was making the stuffing for the ravioli and I realized I was out of spinach since it bolted so early this year. I wanted to make everything perfecto for you and your fidanzato!”
Although I felt bad that the older woman was clearly quite guilty about the situation, I also couldn’t help but find her sincerity adorable.
“It’s okay, Mama. I know you didn’t mean to. You were excited. But we’re all here now, right? Everyone else can have their time in the dining room and this will be just us here.”
The doorbell chimed again.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” Rolando said with a sigh. “Make sure you leave at least one roll and a couple of ravioli for me.”
With that, he left, and Olivia’s mother went from looking distraught to downright mischievous as she leaned toward me and whispered, “Eat as much as you want, I have a full second meal waiting in the fridge that only needs to be popped into the oven to finish.”
A woman after my own heart. Maybe this whole in-law thing wouldn’t be so bad. A little confusing and a whole lot overwhelming at first, sure, but so far I was happy with how things were turning out.
“Oh, Mama, I hope you haven’t been slaving at the oven all day!”
Mrs. Rizoli gave her daughter a look that told me this was a conversation they had often.
“What is this slaving away you say? Cooking is my joy, and I will never turn down the chance to make special dishes. You know, there was once a time when you barely could reach my apron strings but you always insisted on being in here with me! My piccolo chef, so adorabile!” Her dark eyes switched to me. “I have pictures, do you want to see?”
“Do I ever!”
She jumped up to her feet, impressively spry for a woman who’d had seven kids and was nearly as old as my mother—which I couldn’t quite believe, but Olivia wouldn’t lie to me—but her husband grabbed her hand.
“Maybe after the meal, amore? You have worked so hard to make this delicious food and it deserves to be eaten hot, si?”
She rolled her eyes and blushed in a good-natured way and sat right back down. “You are right, mi cucciolo. I got ahead of myself.”
“It’s all right. I too miss our mini-chef.” He sent a playfully pointed gaze over at Olivia, and I really felt like I had been transported to a nineties sitcom.
And it was pretty fucking great.
While Olivia was very purposefully ignoring all of that, I sat back and enjoyed the ambiance as the patriarch served first his wife, then Olivia, then me, before finally himself.
I was used to getting less on my plate than I actually wanted, but I had to ask Enzo to give me a little less.
It looked like Olivia’s impressive ability to put food away also ran in the family.
“Thank you for this amazing food,” I said once my plate was placed in front of me.
There was a roasted squash and greens dish that I didn’t recognize, the aforementioned ravioli, fresh dinner rolls, a stewed pepper dish, fresh caprese salad, and another sauteed green dish I was told was called cicoria ripassata.
It was quite an amazing spread for a casual meal. Judging by the fact that Mrs. Rizoli also had the time to cook a whole other meal that was in the fridge, and another one for the bevy of her clan that was in the dining room, Thanksgiving had to be incredible in their household.
Did Italians celebrate Thanksgiving? Why did I feel like that question might be too stupid to ask out loud?
I added that to the list of things to ask Olivia in the car.
“Mmmm!” I declared after the first bite. “I ha—”
“Dov’è l’essere umano?”
The loud, shrill voice startled me, and a second later, a tiny slip of a person trundled into the kitchen with a walker.
Her hair was stark white, her eyes were milky, but there was still a keenness to her expression as her gaze landed right on me.
There was that word again. Umano. I’d have to look it up when I got home. Or I could add it to the car question list.
“Perché è così alto?”
“Sorry, I don’t speak much Italian,” I said sheepishly, wishing that I’d progressed faster in my Duolingo. It was supposed to help me by learning real conversations, but so far no one had asked me my age, my job, or how to get to the library.
“Nonna Rizoli!” Olivia exclaimed, hopping to her feet. I didn’t need a translation to know that Nonna meant grandma. Considering how old the aunties and uncles I’d met so far were, I got the impression that I was looking at an elder-elder. She’d probably call my mother a spring chicken.
“No Italiano?” she clicked her tongue. “In all my twelve and hundred years I never have a bambino who go with someone who no speak it!”