Goddess of Spring (5 page)

What an unusual coincidence that the woman who baked like an Italian goddess had found an old, discarded copy of
The Italian Goddess
Cookbook.
Her grandmother would have called it
la magia dell' Italia
, the magic of Italy. On impulse, Lina closed her eyes. She believed in the magic of Italy. She'd experienced it in the multicolored marble of Florence's Duomo, the geranium-filled window boxes of Assisi, and the eerie wonder of the Roman Forum at night. She focused her mind on her love for her grandmother's homeland, then she opened the book that rested on her lap, allowing the pages to fall where they chose.

Lina opened her eyes and began reading:

 

Lina blinked in surprise and grinned. A baker's peel! The long, wooden paddle that was used to drop bread into and scoop it out of the oven. Of course Pani Del Goddess had several of them. She kept reading:

 

Well, Pani Del Goddess had several very long ovens. She could stretch the dough to its full six feet! She scanned the rest of the recipe. Included in the book were several different toppings, everything from a light Pizza Bianca, made simply with olive oil, garlic, rosemary, salt and pepper, to Pizza Pugliese, which was a plethora of Italian favorites—eggplant, provolone, anchovies, olives . . . the list went on and on.

“This may be the answer. Why mess with a bunch of different recipes? Why not have one basic specialty, Pizza alla Romana, with several variations? And it's still baking!”

Reacting to the excitement in her voice, Edith Anne woke long enough to offer a muffled woof of support. Patchy Poo the Pud exercised the innate initiative of a cat and ignored her completely.

Lina patted the dog's head while she studied the dough recipe.

 

Lina ran her eyes down the list of ingredients. Dry yeast, water, flour, salt, olive oil—yes, of course she had everything on the list. She could make the dough that night, let it sit all the next day, then she and the “baby birds” could sample it tomorrow night. Delighted, she began reading the preparation directions.

 

Lina's eyes widened.

 

Lina's eyes scanned the recipe. Sure enough, interspersed between instructions for stirring the yeast, and mixing the flour and salt, were otherworldly instructions.

Lina read a line and her brow furrowed.

Was it a spell?

Lina read another line.

It seemed to be more of an invocation, or maybe a prayer. But whatever she called it, the supernatural directions were definitely a part of the recipe. Lina couldn't help but smile.
La magia dell' Italia.
Her grandmother would approve.

Humming to herself, she went in search of a green candle.

CHAPTER FOUR

LINA looked around the counter and nodded in satisfaction. She had assembled all of the ingredients and kitchenwares she would need to make the dough. She had even found a small green candle that gave off a vaguely piney scent. It was a relic from the previous Christmas, and she'd had to dig through two boxes of ornaments before she discovered it. Lina opened the cookbook and set it on the counter next to her favorite stainless steel mixing bowl. Then she began:

 

Ever the consummate chef, Lina followed the directions precisely. She lit the candle and let her thoughts drift to the long-forgotten Harvest Goddess. She wondered briefly what lovely, eccentric cooking rituals had been forgotten along with the goddess.

Lina continued reading:

 

Lina felt relaxed and happy as her experienced hands stirred and mixed.

 

The directions reminded her a little of a new-age relaxation class she had taken once. With a self-amused smile, she set the kitchen timer for ten minutes before beginning the steps of the centering exercise.

She had to admit that in no time she was feeling . . . well . . . if not invigorated, at least very awake and self-aware. Lina went back to the recipe.

 

The timer chimed and Lina jumped, surprised that ten minutes had passed so quickly.

 

The rhythm of the invocation melded harmoniously with the recipe, and Lina found herself eager to read the next lines.

 

Lina's hands fell into a rhythm as she effortlessly plied the dough against the floured countertop. Her eyes were locked on the words that seemed to come as easily to her lips as the familiar kneading motion came to her hands.

 

Lina kneaded the dough while her mind drifted. What an incredibly intriguing thought—to couple the magic of an ancient goddess with the perfection of a recipe that had been passed down from mothers to daughters and preserved for generations. It was such a wonderful, natural idea. To call upon the strength of a goddess through baking! Whether it actually worked, whether or not a goddess really listened, was beside the point. It was a lovely, empowering ritual—one that, if nothing else, could serve to focus her thoughts on the positive and remind her that she should take a moment to enjoy the rich femininity of her chosen career.

The sweet scent of the pine candle mixed with the more earthy smells of yeast and flour. The aroma was delicious and heady. Unexpectedly, Lina felt a wave of sensation, fueled by scent, rush through her body. For a moment she was dizzy and disoriented, as if she had been suddenly displaced from her kitchen and transported, dough and all, to the middle of a pine-filled forest. She rubbed the back of a flour-crusted hand across her forehead. Her head felt unnaturally warm, but the touch of her hand re-grounded her and the dizziness dissipated.

It had been a tough day. She shouldn't be surprised that it was wearing on her. She rolled her shoulders and let her head fall forward and backward, causing tired, overstressed muscles to stretch and relax. She would certainly sleep well tonight.

Lina glanced down at the conclusion of the dough recipe. It contained the usual mundane instructions about covering it in a bowl and letting it rise for at least eight hours. Impatiently, she scanned past the recipe to the completion of the invocation ritual.

 

Lina's smile tilted sardonic. The fullness of her hips said that she might consider going hungry once in a while. Not that she was fat, she amended quickly, she was just voluptuous. And voluptuous wasn't particularly “in” today. She huffed under her breath. She would never understand the current generation's obsession with waif-like women who starved and puked everything feminine from their bodies. She was all softness and curves, and she preferred herself that way.

“I'm goddess-like,” she said firmly.

With no more hesitation, she pinched off a small piece of the newly-kneaded dough and set it aside while she reshaped and then covered the rest of the large ball. She'd already performed the invocation, it was only right that she should follow through to its conclusion. After all, no good cook ever left a recipe incomplete.

It didn't take long to tidy up her already immaculate kitchen and load her dishwasher. After drying her hands, Lina poured a fresh glass of wine and wrapped the small piece of dough in a paper towel before hurrying from the kitchen. Balancing the glass and dough in one hand, she opened the door to the closet in the hall. Before she had her jacket pulled on she heard the tell-tale slap of Edith's paws on the tiled hallway. Smiling, Lina took the bulldog's leash from its hook.

“lt doesn't matter how soundly asleep you are, when this door opens, here you are.” Lina laughed as she snapped the leash onto Edith's collar.

The bulldog yawned then snorted at her.

“I know it's late, but I have something I need to finish, and I know the perfect spot.”

Far from complaining, Edith was the first one to the door of the condo, and Lina had to juggle to balance the wine without spilling it.

“Easy there, big girl!”

Shifting the ball of dough to her jacket pocket, Lina locked the door behind them. It was early March, and the Oklahoma night was unseasonably warm. The air felt rich and heavy with the promise of spring. Lina let Edith lead her into the heart of the well-kept courtyard. A shadow flitted overhead calling Lina's attention upward. A full moon sat high in the sky, round and bright and the color of whipped butter. She stared at it. What an odd shade of yellow. It lent the familiar surroundings of her English Tudor-style condo complex an ethereal glow, casting mundane hedges and sidewalk edges into new and slightly sinister roles.

“Oh, please. I must be having a
Lord of the Rings
moment,” Lina admonished herself. “Dolores was right. I've taken too many trips to the IMAX to drool over Aragorn.”

The ritual and the dough-making frenzy had obviously gone to her head if she was imaging sinister shapes around her well-kept condo complex.

“I'll have to tell Anton all about this,” she mumbled to herself. “Maybe I can finally convince him to share his Xanax with me.”

Actually, now that she was outside and the spell/recipe book was neatly stacked with the other cookbooks in her living room, she was beginning to feel a little foolish.

“Maybe I should have had more wine before this part of the recipe,” she told Edith, who flicked her ears back at her and huffed, but kept on winding her way along their familiar path. “Or maybe I'm just exhausted and I need to go to bed.”

They were coming to her favorite part of the complex—the grand marble fountain that sat squarely in the middle of the cobblestone courtyard. Year-round it spouted water in an impressive geyser that cascaded down three delicately curved, bowl-like tiers. Actually, it was the fountain that had convinced Lina to purchase the condo. During the summer Lina found the area around the fountain, with its cool cobblestones and old oak shade trees, even more refreshing than the pool, and a good deal less crowded. In the winter months the fountain, like the pool, was heated, and Lina had enjoyed many an Oklahoma winter afternoon swathed in blankets, feet tucked under her, while she read to the musical sound of falling water.