Page 51 of A Place in the Sun
‘Trying to copy mine …’
‘It is my recipe! It may look similar but I can assure you that it tastes very different! I had to make it up myself, remember? Until I found another woman prepared to share her recipe.’
‘It’s not authentic. This is the real lasagne. Our mother’s mother’s mother passed it down the family. Not like an outsider’s.’ She sniffs at Nonna Teresa’s and then at Nonna Lucia’s.
‘This is authentic! My mother-in-law learnt it from her maternal grandmother.’
‘But it’s not traditional Tuscan lasagne, is it? Not like mine!’
The argument erupts, like volleys in a table-tennis match, the insults slung back and forth. But somehow in the chaos, sauces are made, pasta is rolled, flour flies into the air, béchamel thickens and the lasagnes are layered into dishes, likebambinibeing tucked snugly into bed. And as the dishes are slid into the oven, with some jostling over who has which shelf, resolved by pulling straws, the tension in the usually cool kitchen is almost palpable.
I organize myself and the children into helping thenonnas with the clean-up. Work surfaces are scrubbed, and even that seems like a competition for the cleanest space.
‘If that’s a reflection of her cleanliness at home, I wouldn’t eat there …’ says Nonna Teresa to Nonna Rosa.
‘I can see my face in the shine on this worktop!’ barks Nonna Lucia.
‘Don’t scare the young ones,’ says Nonna Rosa. ‘They won’t sleep tonight.’
When the work surfaces are done, and glasses of water have been passed around, the kitchen fills with the most delicious aromas. The bread is put into baskets and bowls of salad placed on the table. The room fills with chatter and expectation.
Slowly the oven’s door is opened.
‘Don’t open it! The hot air will escape!’
‘There’s so much hot air coming from you that that won’t be a problem!’
‘Madam, do not touch my lasagne! It has to be cooked in the very centre of the oven.’
‘I haven’t moved it.’
‘I saw you touch it when you reached in to check yours.’
‘I didn’t go near it, you silly woman.’
‘I am not a silly woman! How dare you?’
‘You’re just scared you won’t win.’
‘We’ll see about that!’
The dining room starts to fill with locals. Pietro has gone to get Francesco. And Alfonso arrives with his wife, in a wheelchair: she is clearly delighted to be out and about and in company.
I hand round glasses of wine from one of the jugs on the table and offer small plates ofantipasti: marinated olives and little cubes of carrot from jars in the store cupboard, squares of goat’s cheese from Giuseppe, and Caterina’s home-grown small, sweet tomatoes that burst with flavour when you bite into them.
The excitement is building. Everyone is keeping an eye on the kitchen door and an ear to the exchanges taking place in there: will things bubble up and boil over between the three women, just like the rising temperature?
Finally, the three big lasagne dishes are taken ceremoniously from the oven, with a flourish, and carried into the dining room. A hush settles among the room’s occupants. Each lasagne is golden brown, bubbling with molten sauce. One is topped with breadcrumbs, another a sprinkling of cheese, and all undulate, like the rolling hills around us.
Everyone in the dining room stands and stares, gripping their glasses and theantipastiplates, stopping in mid-conversation. It’s as if they’re in the presence of great works of art and their creators. No one speaks and I’m hoping this will put an end to the years of arguing, each appreciating the others’ hard work. Until Nonna Rosa lifts her head and declares, ‘Anyone can see mine is the better lasagne.’ She points at it on the table.
‘Clearly not!’ says Nonna Lucia.
‘And yours looks nothing like a traditional Tuscan lasagne,’ says Nonna Teresa.
‘That’s because the recipe is from my family’s home! Remember? I left to be with your brother, who brought me here so he would have a decent meal every evening,’ Nonna Lucia bites back.
‘Madam! May I remind you that I won thecompetition all those years ago and I will win again today,’ Nonna Rosa snarls.
