Part 5 (1/2)
”This isn't eating,” said Ian. ”It needs its own word.”
They had agreed that no one would pour their own wine, so they took turns walking around the table, filling gla.s.ses, stopping for a low-voiced moment of conversation with one person or another. Even Chloe was given some wine, although she wasn't yet twenty-one.
”I don't know, Chloe,” Ian joked, ”we could get in a lot of trouble because of you.”
Isabelle leaned over the table to Chloe. ”When I was young, we didn't worry about such things. But then again,” she said with a wink, ”maybe that is why I don't remember so much now.”
They would have forgotten about the biscotti, except that Chloe was so proud of them she dragged Lillian off to the kitchen to make espresso, brought to the table in tiny white cups, a crisp oval of chocolate biscotto on the plate underneath.
”Now that that was a wonderful Thanksgiving,” Carl said, leaning back luxuriantly in his chair as he put down his empty espresso cup. was a wonderful Thanksgiving,” Carl said, leaning back luxuriantly in his chair as he put down his empty espresso cup.
”You know, I always think a holiday is a lot like a kitchen,” Lillian noted. ”What's important is what comes out of it.”
Antonia thought for a moment, then smiled. ”But of course,” she said quietly to herself.
IT WAS well past eleven when they left the restaurant-the wine, the food, the conversations of the evening warming them even as they entered the cold, dark air. well past eleven when they left the restaurant-the wine, the food, the conversations of the evening warming them even as they entered the cold, dark air.
”She didn't ask us what we learned about Thanksgiving,” Ian commented.
”Did you want her to?” Helen asked.
Chloe tucked her arm companionably through Ian's.
”I bet you really liked to take tests in school,” she teased him.
”I just want to know if I have to wait until Thanksgiving to eat like that again. Or if I don't, will Thanksgiving still be special?”
Antonia came up to him on his other side.
”No. And yes.” Her eyes met his briefly, happily. They all reached the gate and Antonia turned and walked to the left, toward her car.
”Buona notte, Antonia,” Isabelle called into the night. Isabelle called into the night.
”Sogni d'oro,” sweet dreams, came Antonia's voice in reply. sweet dreams, came Antonia's voice in reply.
ANTONIA HEARD Susan and Jeff on the porch before they entered the house. Susan and Jeff on the porch before they entered the house.
”I can't wait to see the plans,” Susan was saying as she opened the door. ”She... Oh, my G.o.d, what is that incredible smell?”
Susan and Jeff reached the kitchen and stopped, wordless. The linoleum in the room in front of them had been ripped up, revealing a fir floor underneath, splotched with glue, but a warm red-gold all the same. A small table covered with a yellow Provencal tablecloth was set like a secret in the bay window; an iron pot full of water boiled cheerfully on the huge black stove. In the center of the room the wooden prep table was covered with a snowstorm of flour and a series of red ceramic bowls, and in the fireplace, on a grill set over a glowing bed of fragrant sticks, marinated chicken and eggplant sizzled and cooked.
”You're just in time,” Antonia said. ”Throw on an ap.r.o.n and you can help me finish the ravioli.”
SUSAN WIPED the last of the meat juices from her plate with a piece of bread. Her normally sleek blond hair curled about her face in the humidity of the kitchen. Flour smudged the side of her black skirt and she had utterly forgotten to take off her ap.r.o.n when she sat down at the table. the last of the meat juices from her plate with a piece of bread. Her normally sleek blond hair curled about her face in the humidity of the kitchen. Flour smudged the side of her black skirt and she had utterly forgotten to take off her ap.r.o.n when she sat down at the table.
”That was amazing,” she moaned. Jeff looked at her and smiled, reaching across the table for her hand.
”Will you cook like this for us, always?” Susan asked Antonia.
”I think you will cook for each other, in this kitchen.”
”Yes,” Jeff agreed.
”Okay,” Susan responded amiably. She took a leisurely, reflective sip of her red wine. ”We can can change the cabinets, though, right? Please? Oh, wait-oh, this would be great-do you think we could find a photograph of the original kitchen, and see what the old ones used to look like?” change the cabinets, though, right? Please? Oh, wait-oh, this would be great-do you think we could find a photograph of the original kitchen, and see what the old ones used to look like?”
Jeff raised his winegla.s.s to Susan. ”That's my girl,” he said.
ANTONIA ENTERED her wooden bungalow, took off her coat, and dialed the phone. her wooden bungalow, took off her coat, and dialed the phone.
”It worked,” she said happily into the receiver. ”Thank you for helping me-how did you say, rip up?-the floor. I didn't know who else to call.”
”Anytime,” replied Ian.
Tom
Tom stood outside the restaurant kitchen. The windows were lit; he could see the other students inside, mingling with the easy familiarity of neighbors at a block party. On the counter, cans of tomatoes, a canister of flour, a paper-wrapped package, sat ready for the night's lesson. It was like coming home after a long day away, opening a door to the certainty that someone was there, had always been there. He turned to go.
”Hi, Tom.” Lillian opened the kitchen door. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, her eyes calm, watching him. She smiled.
”Come in,” she said. ”You'll get cold out there.”
Something about Lillian's voice touched everyone who heard it; it left you feeling protected, forgiven for things you hadn't even figured out you had done. When Lillian told you to enter a room, you did, if only to be near her voice.
”I thought it felt like a pasta night,” Lillian remarked as Tom came into the kitchen. ”Let's see if you agree with me.”
THE STUDENTS FOUND their usual places in the rows of chairs facing the wooden counter. ”It's chilly out there,” Lillian addressed the cla.s.s. ”I hope you all are warming up.” Her eyes ran over the rows of students, checking facial expressions, a jittery knee. their usual places in the rows of chairs facing the wooden counter. ”It's chilly out there,” Lillian addressed the cla.s.s. ”I hope you all are warming up.” Her eyes ran over the rows of students, checking facial expressions, a jittery knee.
Tom followed her gaze. Claire was putting away her wallet; she had been showing photographs to Isabelle and a smile lingered on her face. Chloe had moved to the back row; her face was distracted, without the openness that had been there at the end of the Thanksgiving cla.s.s. Tom noticed that Ian had finally secured a seat next to Antonia, although it appeared that he was still having a hard time figuring out what to say to her. Carl sat next to his wife, as always. She was resting her hand on his arm, the tip of her index finger just touching his wrist bone. Tom looked back to the front of the cla.s.s.
”You know,” Lillian began, ”something always happens to me when the weather changes in the fall. Everything seems to be moving so quickly toward the cold. So this evening, I thought we would work with one of the most essential ingredients of all-time.
”Not the herb,” she said, smiling at the look of confusion on Isabelle's face. ”Minutes, hours. If you stop to think about it, every meal you eat, you eat time-the weeks it takes to ripen a tomato, the years to grow a fig tree. And every meal you cook is time out of your day-but you all know that.
”Now, usually a cla.s.s about time is really about efficiency-how to do twice as much in half the time. But we are going to do exactly the opposite tonight. We are going to cultivate inefficiency, squander our best resource as if our supply was infinite. We are going to make a meal that flies in the face of the fact that every day is getting shorter for the next three months-pasta with red sauce.
”Now, to truly have this experience, you would need to begin in the morning, so the sauce could cook all day. Unfortunately, we don't quite have that amount of time, but you'll be able to learn the lesson anyway.”
She picked up a head of garlic in her hand, as if weighing it, and then looked out across the cla.s.s.
”Tom,” she said, ”why don't you come help me?” and she gently tossed the garlic. It landed in the bowl created by his palms, its outer layers crackling like a secret, the weight both heavier and lighter than he had antic.i.p.ated. He didn't want this, not tonight when the world seemed both too cold and too warm. But the garlic lay in his hands, waiting. He gripped it, hard, then stood and walked a bit uncertainly around the counter to Lillian's side, his cupped hands coming up to his face in a gesture so automatic that he was surprised when the smell of the garlic slipped into his nose.
CHARLIE HAD LOVED GARLIC; she had told Tom that if he loved her, he'd better love the way her fingers smelled after a day in the kitchen, the scent soaked deep into her skin like wine into a tablecloth. She refused the aid of all kitchen gadgets, crus.h.i.+ng the fat, firm cloves under her strong thumb, pulling off the papery outer sheets and digging her nail into the base of the clove to remove the hardened end. She would have chopped with her fingers, too, if she could have, burrowing into the smell of it. When she was done, she would trace lines with her fingertips between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, along the base of her skull and up behind her ears.
”Trails for you to follow,” she would say to Tom with a wink.
One evening at a restaurant, the wife of one of Tom's law firm clients had commented despairingly on the amount of garlic on her bruschetta.