Page 90 of Red Zone Realizations
Noah gives me a knowing look, his eyes sultry. “Not with what we’ve been doing in the pool.”
I playfully smack him again. “Noah, stop,” I protest, but my stomach does a little flip as I remember Noah’s lips trailingdown my bathing suit on the way to my bikini bottoms damp with more than just pool water. We both wordlessly pick up the pace.
When we finally make it back to our villa with it’s dark gold stone walls with a barrel clay tile roof set into the side of a hill, I see a car parked out front. “I guess the chef is already here.” The caretaker of the house said he would let the chef in so he could get set up.
“What’s his name again?” Noah asks.
“I’m not sure how to pronounce it, but it looks like Pippo.”
We open the wooden side door and step into the main room. The kitchen and dining area are huge and open. The windows are always open since the house was designed to catch the cross breeze. An Italian man in his late forties or early fifties stands at the sink, washing produce. When he sees us come in, a smile splits his face. “Ah, my friends have arrived for the evening. Are you ready to make pasta?”
I smile back, charmed by his enthusiasm and his heavy Italian accent. I immediately get fun uncle vibes from him. “We are.” I look at the kitchen table, already laid out with the necessities, a rolling pin, a pasta machine attached to the edge of the wood.
“Okay, okay. Come wash up, and we’ll get started.”
I stand next to Pippo as he builds a perfect flour nest for the eggs I’m about to crack.
“Now, use your hand to mix the eggs into the flour and then knead the dough. I’ll keep track of the time, just keep going.”
He wasn’t joking when he said he’d keep track of the time. It’s been at least five minutes of kneading already, and Pippo is helping himself to another glass of wine. “My arms are tired.” I whine to Noah.
“Let me have a go.” He steps in and takes over. I watch as Noah’s forearms flex as he moves the dough rhythmically under his hands. He sees me staring. “You’re drooling.”
My eyes snap up. “I am not.”
“It’s okay, I like it.” He winks.
“We have to make it through this pasta class,” I whisper.
“Make it through? I’m having a great time.”
Pippo comes back, wine glass in hand, and announces, “Time is done for the pasta. Now, we roll it out.”
He splits the dough in two so Noah and I both have a piece to work with.
“The dough is like a lady. She must be massaged to relax her and lengthen her so that we can fill her.”
I freeze and look at Noah, my eyes wide.Did I hear that right?
Noah must have heard the same thing as me because he’s barely containing his chuckle. He attempts to cover it with a cough, and I think it would have been more obvious, but Pippo is sipping his wine again.
Once we have two pretty flat pasta flaps in front of us, Pippo comes to show us how to properly cut them. “When you fill it, don’t put too much or it will come out of the sides while it cooks. Make sure to seal the edges tightly so the water doesn’t get in.”
Noah attempts to seal his first ravioli, but somehow, it’s crooked. “Is this right?”
Pippo leans in, his eyes a little glassy. “Perfecto.” Pippo’s glass is magically empty again. “Now, Pippo must get a glass of water because he is a little drunk.”
Now it’s my turn to look intently at my ravioli, trying to hide my smile.
Pippo goes to the other side of the kitchen to dig up a glassof water, and I say to Noah, “Do you think he’s going to be too drunk to serve dessert?”
“I hope not. I’ve been looking forward to the tiramisu.”
“Good thing fresh pasta isn’t very hard to cook.”
“Too bad it’s not fried, cause then the ravioli would be toasted—like him.” This time I can’t hide my laugh. Hopefully Pippo thinks it’s just jokes between a couple. He seems focused on getting that glass of water down.
Pippo comes back, glass of water in hand. He takes my tray of pasta—pesto and ricotta ravioli—back to the stove with him and gestures for us to come over.
