Page 79 of A Place in the Sun
‘Or how you slice the garlic,’ adds Nonna Rosa, her eyes filling with tears.
Nonna Teresa sniffs and blows her nose.
‘It’s about the memories you make, to keep safe, for always,’ says Nonna Lucia, with a crack in her voice.
‘It’s okay to have the good memories. About how it made you feel.’
‘And it’s okay to create new ones too.’
‘Not get stuck in the past!’ Nonna Lucia says.
‘So stuck we never thought we’d see this day!’ Nonna Rosa practically growls, looking at the other two.
The children are grinning, as is Stella. And through the tears building in my eyes, I smile. They’re right and all I can think of saying is, ‘Grab an apron, everyone. We need to be ready to cook when our students get here.’
Thenonnas are moving around the kitchen, giving orders and creating work stations for each element of the dish.
‘We need aprimoanddolcetoo!’
‘Gelato!’ says Pietro, and we hug him all over again.
‘Salataforprimo. You need to leave room for the lasagne!’
‘You need to tell us your ingredients,’ Nonna Rosa says to me.
‘Only if you promise not to sniff at them!’
The three shrug playfully. ‘We can’t promise, but we’ll try!’ They all laugh, their eyes watery. Luca and Aimee are joining in with thenonnas and Stella, carrying bowls from the pantry to the table, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. That is exactly how it feels. I’m doing the one thing I’ve tried not to do since Marco died. I’ve been avoiding the kitchen, not wanting to cook, not wanting to go back and remember how it felt. And the one thing I should have been doing all along is cooking with love.
The students start to arrive. Glenda and Walt appear hand in hand, while he and Daisy look as if they’ve put their differences behind them.
‘Buongiorno, everyone! Today, as you can hear,’ the church bells are ringing in the distance, ‘it’s Sunday. And we’re all here to share one last meal together. A meal cooked with love. So, everyone, grab an apron and let’s get ready to cook!’
‘Sebastian, you come with me,’ says Nonna Rosa, and he seems thrilled by his popularity, if still a little nervous.
The students split into groups, Daisy and Walt together, laughing and teasing one another.
At one corner of the kitchen Caterina is making lemongelatowhile Isabella and Aimee are producing biscuits. The pasta machine is screwed to the work surface and flour is being liberally tossed around by Nonna Lucia, smiling as pasta balls are created and kneaded.
And then there is the sauce, Luca, Stella and myself: I explain the ingredients that Marco would put in, telling us about Le Marche where he grew up with his parents and sisters. The stories he would tell us from his home town, stories that Luca and Aimee have heard before but Stella is hearing for the first time. The long summers when Marco worked in his father’s friend’s restaurant and hated returning to school. When he left school and got his first job in a kitchen. He’d travelled to the UK without a coat because he’d never known weather so bad, and I told them about the stars he cooked for when he was a chef on the touring circuit. And how he and I had met, a story Luca takes up: how everything I thought I was and wanted changed in that moment. And how the restaurant was born, along with Luca and Aimee. That’s where we leave it. The happy stories we want to remember as we make the sauce, ready for layering with Marco’s twists, our family lasagne.
When lunchtime comes, and the church bells arestill ringing, the kitchen smells of something very special: it smells of home. In the courtyard and the dining room, practically the whole village is there, having heard that thenonnas are cooking lasagne and no doubt expecting them to be duelling with rolling pins.
What they find is a joyful kitchen.
We open the front door and extend the table, with those from Casa Luna, into the courtyard. We put jugs of wine on it, with water, forks and spoons. The salads are dotted down the table, with platters of homemade focaccia, in squares, with rosemary from the garden, garlic, drizzled with olive oil.
Then comes the lasagne.
It’s served and passed down the table, Luca and Stella looking very pleased with themselves.
As am I.
When we have served everyone, I regard the table. Sebastian has been hijacked by one of thenonnas. He lifts his glass to me. We haven’t had time to talk, and I know we must before he leaves later that afternoon. I have to let him know how I’m feeling. I have to make up my mind about what I’m going to do … and I may have done that. It was all down to the lasagne.
I lift my glass to him too.
I pick up my fork and see the children sitting between new friends, local residents and cookery-school students, happier than I’ve seen them in a very long time. I breathe in the scent of the lasagne, transporting me toSundays after the restaurant had closed, in our kitchen, cooking it together. When life was good. The memory is there clear as day. As is Marco. I put my fork into the lasagne, through the layers of pasta and béchamel sauce, the meatragù, made with Le Marche ingredients. We may not have got them all exactly right, but it felt the same when we cooked it and, frankly, it tastes the same. Made with love and laughter. I lift the fork to my mouth, smell the herbs and garlic, chew and close my eyes. I’m right back there: I feel warm, happy, loved. Slowly I open my eyes and look straight ahead, to see Giovanni smiling.
