Margherita's Notebook (3 page)

Margherita had nodded. “I want to become as good a cook as you are, Mama . . .”

Erica had stroked her hair. “You already are, my darling.”

Feeling happy to hear those words, Margherita had sliced three spring onions and browned them in butter and oil. Then she'd
added the asparagus stems, which she had in the meantime chopped into rounds, and simmered over low heat until they had practically melted.

“Margy”—her mother had been the first one to call her by that nickname—“you know it takes time to make risotto . . .” But Margherita had smiled back as if to say she needn't worry. Then she'd put the mixture in the blender and pulsed it a few times until she'd gotten a creamy green sauce, neither too thick nor too watery, to which she added salt and pepper.

After toasting the rice with the sautéed onions and asparagus sauce, she had cooked it, adding the stock gradually. When it was done, she'd added robiola cheese to make it creamy. And yet, although the flavor was pleasant, Margherita wasn't satisfied. Something was missing, something that would make this dish unique. But what could that ingredient be? Thyme? Mint leaves? Perhaps just a pinch of marjoram? None of these ideas convinced her.

It had been Erica who suggested she grate some lemon zest over it just before it finished cooking.

“That's what was missing! Thanks, Mama, it needed your magic touch!”

Then Margherita had taken the individual ramekins, lined them with the cooked asparagus tips, and added the rice, carefully pressing it and making it compact.

“I'll serve them along with some asparagus tempura, and the cream right next to that,” she'd announced, satisfied.

Erica had dedicated one of her bright smiles to her. “And what's the name of this new creation?”

“Asparagus Temptation.”

A
tear fell on the page and spread out over the ink, distorting the letters. The memory was still there, as clear as if it had taken place only a few minutes ago.

A true Cupid, that risotto. No doubt about it.

That day, the restaurant was packed. Margherita and Erica hadn't been able to stop rushing between the tables for a moment. When the customers finally started to leave, Erica, who looked exhausted, had breathed a sigh of relief.

“I don't know what I would have done without you today. Thanks for staying, sweetie . . .”

Margherita had hugged her mother lovingly.

“You need to rest, Mama. Get your things and go home. I'll take care of cleaning up.”

Erica had smiled at her and without protesting had taken off her apron and gone home.

As Margherita had loaded the dishwasher, she'd thought that she simply had to convince Armando to take her mother away for a few days. She could deal with the restaurant; with Rosalina's help it wouldn't be a problem. So absorbed in her thoughts was she that she hadn't noticed that someone had entered the kitchen.

“It's all just a dream, right?”

Margherita spun around. Standing in front of her was a tall, blond, handsome—actually very handsome—young guy.

“Can I help you?”

He flashed her an irresistible smile.

“Let me guess: you're the amazing cook who made the risotto. Today's my lucky day, I know it is. In one fell swoop I have found Eve, temptation on earth, and a sublime cook. And by the way, nice to meet you, my name is Francesco.”

Margherita could not help laughing.

“And my name is Margherita, not Eve. But I'm glad you liked the risotto, it was an experiment . . .”

He moved in closer, looking at her intensely.

“I like people who know how to take chances.”

Margherita could hardly breathe. His eyes were simply too blue. His voice was way too sexy. And that amazing body . . . better to stay on the defensive.

“Are you here for the check?” she'd asked, moving away to reestablish some distance between them.

“No. I want to know what a beautiful girl like you is doing locked up in a kitchen.”

Francesco had reached out to straighten a lock of hair that had slipped out of her ponytail, an intimate gesture that he'd done so naturally it had made her weak in the knees.

“Why?” she'd asked him, lowering her eyes.

“I don't know. Maybe because I was expecting to find a nice little old lady, a guardian of ancient culinary wisdom, and instead I found you . . .”

Another tear fell on her notebook. Francesco had always known how to make her feel special, unique. In the beginning she had tried to hold him off, but he hadn't let up. Every weekend after that he'd come back, one time with special oil infused with satureja, another time with
gelo di melone
, a melon jelly dessert he'd had shipped from a famous café in Palermo called Alba. Any excuse to surprise her, to astonish her.

He became a regular at Erica's restaurant. Every Saturday and Sunday, there he was. And even when Margherita made sure she wasn't around, he'd stay there to talk about her with Erica and Armando. Or, taking out his guitar, he'd
play the songs he'd written for her. Francesco had won over everyone's heart with his charming, open manner.

“You can't come here every weekend, all the way from Rome, traveling all those miles, just to dine with us here.”

“It's worth it. I've found the woman of my life at last and I'm not going to let her get away.”

“Are you really doing all this for me?”

“I'd do anything to be with you. Even if it means traveling back and forth forever.”

But it was the morning he showed up with a cat as black as coal that he'd heard mewing in a garbage can in a rest area on the highway, that Margherita had finally succumbed.

“Asparagio . . . that's the name I gave him,” he'd said smiling. “You wouldn't want us to live all by ourselves, would you?”

A few months later, they'd moved to Rome. If only Margherita had known what Erica wasn't telling her, she would never have left.

For Margherita, cooking was like recharging her batteries. So without thinking, she opened the refrigerator to seek inspiration. Once again it was the asparagus that helped her make a decision. Yes, my dear Francesco, I'm going to make you all your favorite dishes.

Her kitchen reflected her personality—colorful, cheerful, chaotic. But there was no trace of cheerfulness in Margherita's expression as she sliced bacon and rolled it around prunes, which she crisped in the oven, or when she kneaded the dough for the
pizzelle
Francesco was so fond of. Her hands raced from one mixture to another until,
sitting on the kitchen counter, were the prune rolls, her famous asparagus risotto, and the Neapolitan
pizzelle
—all ready to be eaten. Now it's time to make dessert, she said to herself as she leafed through the pages of her notebook. Apple meringue or ricotta tart? No, this was a really special day, and she was going to make him pineapple cream pie, his absolute favorite. Margherita mixed melted butter with confectioners' sugar, added a pinch of salt, then almond flour, eggs, and flour she'd sifted together with cocoa. She kneaded the dough with her palms and fingers, venting all her frustration on that cohesive mass, until she got a smooth ball, which she put in the refrigerator to rest. Again her thoughts raced far away.

She should have figured it out when, having just come back from Erica's funeral, he'd asked her to make him that cake . . .

“Please, Margy, I don't feel so good, I should never have gone to the funeral . . . ,” he'd moaned, while her heart was in pieces as she remembered that final farewell. “And anyway, you know, cooking takes your mind off things . . .”

And once again, Margherita had said yes.

“And Margy, when you finish, could you set up the vaporizer? I have a terrible cough,” he'd continued.

Why didn't I tell him what I was thinking? Why was I so concerned about him and not enough about my own feelings?

Why does Francesco always come before everything else?

As these thoughts crossed her mind, she blended the pulp of half a pineapple, meanwhile heating up the milk on the stove.

Then she beat the egg yolks with the sugar, her tears mixing with the ingredients. (I wish, she thought, the same thing would happen that I saw in that movie, the one where the
main character, who loves to cook but suffers from a broken heart, as she prepares the wedding cake for her sister who's stolen her boyfriend's heart, pours all her tears onto the icing, so that the next day, when the guests taste it, they're struck by a sense of nostalgia, melancholy, gloominess . . .) But Margherita's tears weren't tears of sadness, they were tears of anger and bitterness. She added the pineapple puree to the eggs and milk and, stirring gently, transferred it to the heat.

Yes, dear Francesco, this is what I wish for you, my lying husband.

When the cream began to thicken, she removed the saucepan from the heat and added a drop of rum, stirring occasionally, while she checked the piecrust she'd put in the oven a few minutes before. “Ready,” she said, taking it out of the oven. She picked up the other half of the pineapple, sliced it quickly, sprinkled sugar on it, and caramelized it over the gas flame. She whipped the heavy cream, then gently folded it into the pineapple puree, after which she poured everything into the cocoa-flavored shortcrust pastry, garnishing it with the caramelized pineapple. As she worked, Margherita seemed to have undergone a sort of metamorphosis: no more tears, the expression on her face more and more purposeful. By the time the delicious aroma spread to every corner and inch of the house, announcing that her creation was ready at last, she knew her mind was made up.

When he got home, Francesco was surprised at how quiet the house was. No trace of Margherita's furry tribe, no whistled greeting from Valastro, and, most important,
no sign of Margherita. Maybe she went to the vet's, he thought, taking off his shoes and leaving them in the hall. But if so, she hadn't mentioned it.

I hope this doesn't mean I have to go food shopping, that would be a real pain, he thought to himself. So he hurried into the kitchen to check. Before his eyes, as if by magic, were all his favorite dishes: prune rolls, asparagus risotto, Neapolitan
pizzelle
, pineapple pie. Francesco was dumbstruck. Now he was worried: he must have forgotten something.
Oh, my God, what day is it? Is today some anniversary of ours?
He quickly started listing the important dates in their life together.