Francesca's Kitchen (13 page)

“Forgive them, God,” she sighed under her breath. “They know not what they do.”

Later, Francesca was sitting in the living room, doing a crossword puzzle, when a weary-looking Loretta finally walked through the door. The children, who had ensconced themselves upstairs after dinner, descended to greet her, while Francesca pulled on her overcoat and collected her things. She glanced back to the kitchen, where she had set out on the table a plate and utensils for their mother. The choice of frozen dinner she had left to her employer's discretion.

“Thank you so much for staying, Mrs. Campanile,” said Loretta, smiling gratefully. “I'm sorry to be getting home so late.”

“Oh, it's not so late, Mrs. Simmons,” replied Francesca. “The time passed quickly. It was a chance for the children and me to get to know each other a little better.”

Given that barely a word had been exchanged between the two and the old lady since before dinner, Will and Penny looked at each other with sideways glances before retreating to the upstairs.

“I hope dinner wasn't too much trouble,” said Loretta, dropping her own coat atop the chair with those of her children. That the pile held there without slipping to the floor struck Francesca as somewhat miraculous.

“Dinner was no trouble at all,” she answered, not anxious to revisit the memory of her most recent culinary adventure. “Do you think you will be working late again tomorrow?”

Loretta let out a long, weary sigh. “I'm afraid there's that possibility. I'll understand if it's going to be a problem for you to stay again. Just let me know, so that I can make some arrangements.”

“Oh, no,” Francesca smiled, “it won't be a problem, but would you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go right ahead,” said Loretta, curious to hear what it might be. “I was just wondering,” Francesca began, ignoring the voices of her library friends screaming in her ears, “do your children have any particular food allergies?”

W
hen Will and Penny came home from school the next day, Francesca was not at the window, waiting for them as they traipsed up the front walk, nor was she standing in the hallway to greet them when they walked through the door and dropped their backpacks to the floor. The two puzzled over the old woman's absence but for a moment, for upon entering the house they were immediately distracted by a delightful and unexpected smell wafting from the kitchen. The two tore off their hats and coats and boots, and followed their noses to the source of the warm, sweet aroma that had welcomed them home. Standing in their stockinged feet at the kitchen door, they looked in just as Francesca was removing a tray of freshly baked homemade chocolate chip cookies from the oven. She had made the cookies from scratch, mixing all the ingredients at home, and brought everything, tray and all, with her, so that all she needed to do was toss it into the oven when she arrived.

“Hello, children,” Francesca said, setting the tray atop the stove. Seeing the eager, inquisitive looks on their faces, she smiled inwardly, for she knew what it meant to come home on a cold day to find something warm and delicious waiting inside. Earlier that day, she had considered making something other than the cookies—a tray of biscotti or perhaps some pizzelle—but in the end, she had decided to go with an old standby. “I hope you both had a nice day at school today.”

“Wow, those smell good, Mrs. C,” said Will, taking a step into the kitchen. Before he could go too far, Penny caught him by the back of his shirt.

“That's okay, honey,” Francesca told her. “You can both come and take a look.”

Penny regarded her with a cautious gaze, and the two drew nearer to the counter by the stove. There, she and her brother watched with the sort of rapt attention they usually reserved for television viewing as Francesca took a spatula and transferred the cookies one by one onto a plate. The children's eyes grew as wide as doughnuts as they beheld the mouthwatering sight. When it came to baking, Francesca never did anything small; the dark, steaming cookies were each the size of an espresso cup saucer, all of them bursting with melted chocolate.

“Who did you make those for?” Penny inquired, her chilly demeanor of just a few moments earlier starting to melt.

“Yeah,” added Will, licking his lips, his gaze never leaving the plate. “They really do look good.”

“Oh, I was just trying to pass the time until you two came home, so I decided to bake these and take them home in case my son stops by tonight,” Francesca told them. “He loves chocolate chip cookies.”

“Oh,” said Penny very softly, trying hard to hide her disappointment, but failing miserably. For his part, Will made no effort whatsoever to conceal his utter disheartenment at this letdown. His chin sank to his chest as he continued to gaze longingly at the pile of cookies. He was standing so close that the steam still rising off them fogged his glasses.

“But you know something?” Francesca said, anxious to keep their attention now that she had captured it. “I think maybe you both could have one, if you like. I mean, I'm sure my son wouldn't mind.”

“Are you sure?” asked Penny, her face brightening at the prospect.

“Who cares?” said Will, reaching for the plate.

“But first,” interjected Francesca before he could lay his hand on a single morsel, “that table needs to be cleared off and these counters straightened up. Do you think you two could do that for your mother while I let these cool?”

Despite the old woman's smile, there was a certain sternness in her eye and in the tone of her voice as she proposed this bargain, neither of which seemed to cause the boy any great concern. His sister, however, paused to consider the whole thing more carefully.

“Is there anything
else
we have to do?” Penny asked.

“Yes,” said Francesca, confirming the young girl's suspicions. “You have to wash your hands after.
Then
you can have a cookie.”

“That's good enough for me,” enthused Will. “Let's get going!”

It didn't take long for the two to clear the table. Most of the mess was old schoolwork and junk mail that had been allowed to sit there collecting dust. Just about all of it, to Francesca's way of thinking, should have gone directly into the trash. She knew that over time, such messes took on lives of their own, and it was hard to displace them once they had established themselves, unless you attacked them ruthlessly every day. Still, she didn't want to run the risk of the children throwing out something of importance without their mother's permission, so she pulled a chair away from the table and had the children stack everything neatly on its seat. It was not the best solution, but at least it was a start. At long last, it might be possible for people to sit at the table and eat.

The counters were a bit trickier. Most of the heap, from what Francesca could see, was useless clutter. Just the same, she was aware that, between the catalogs and pamphlets and sticky notes and announcements from school and old envelopes with hastily scrawled notes across their backs, there was bound to be at least one item of import. That being the case, she directed the children to simply organize everything as best they could, to at least create a little working space for food preparation—if any such thing were to ever happen there again. Francesca briefly considered prodding them to take on the sink full of dishes—after all, doing the dishes every night after dinner had been one of her primary duties as a young girl—but she decided it would be best not to push her luck at that particular moment. Finally, when the children had finished, she reminded them to wash their hands and, true to her word, let them both try one of the cookies, but not before pouring each of them a glass of milk and making them sit at the table.

“Sit, and eat those right there,” Francesca told them. “I don't want you getting crumbs from my cookies all over your mother's carpets. And make sure you drink all that milk.” She took a seat at the table and watched them, delighted at the looks of pleasure on their faces as they munched away. Perhaps they weren't listed on the food pyramid that people were always talking about, but as far as she was concerned, warm cookies and cold milk were essential nutrients for children. It occurred to Francesca just then that hot chocolate would have gone even better on that winter's day. She filed the idea for future reference.

The rapidity with which the cookies disappeared into their mouths convinced Francesca that to not allow the two children a second cookie each would be cruel. Besides, with Will looking up at her with that irresistible Oliver Twist look on his face, how could she refuse? Before they had a chance to ask, Francesca suggested that, if they liked, they could each take another. The words had scarcely left her lips before two more cookies were swiped from the plate.

“
Dio mio
, chew those slow!” Francesca exclaimed as she watched the two youngsters gobble them down. “I don't want you both to choke, God forbid.” As at all kitchen tables at which children sit, the words fell upon deaf ears. All Francesca could do was look on and smile.

“So, what do you think?” she asked when they had both swallowed their last bites. “Were there enough chocolate chips? My son likes lots in his cookies.”

Before Penny or Will could answer this dismaying question—for the thought of Francesca taking the remaining cookies home to her son filled them with despair—the telephone rang.

“I'll get it!” cried Penny, springing from her seat.

“You always have to answer the phone,” muttered her brother.

“No,” said Francesca, motioning for the young girl to stay put. “
I'll
answer the telephone.”

Penny stiffened.

“Don't worry,” Francesca told her, unmoved by the indignant look with which the child fixed her. “If it's for you, I'll tell you.”

As she stood and reached for the phone, Francesca knew that she was crossing a line, but sooner or later, it had to happen. Since she began watching the two children, and against her better instincts, she had allowed Penny a free hand to answer the telephone, and to make calls of her own from time to time, without question. This the young girl inevitably did upstairs, out of the range of the old woman's still-keen sense of hearing. Francesca had never felt comfortable with this arrangement, for she felt an obligation to know who was calling the house and to whom the child was speaking. Besides, she had never allowed her own children such latitude at home, at least not at such an early age. Why would she do so now with these two? Loretta had not advised her one way or the other on the children's use of the telephone. That being the case, Francesca decided it was time to set her own rules. She picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” she said with Penny and Will hanging on her every word, the way children always do when a grown-up gets on the telephone. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Simmons. Yes, everything is going just fine.” Francesca put the phone to her shoulder. “It's your mother, for me,” she told them before putting the phone back to her ear. “What's that, Mrs. Simmons? Oh, yes, they've been angels. They just had a little afternoon snack, and now I think they're just about to go do their homework.” Francesca gave the two children a furtive look when she spoke this last statement. Reluctantly, Penny and Will slouched away from the table and trudged into the living room to find a spot where they would still be close enough to eavesdrop. “You think you might be late again this evening?” said Francesca, a smile breaking out across her face as she watched them go. “No, don't worry, Mrs. Simmons. It's no bother at all. Yes, of course I can take care of dinner…”

“Where are you going?” said Will when Francesca emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later and went to the front hall to put on her coat.

“Just out to the car for a minute,” she replied. “I'll be right back.”

Francesca returned shortly, carrying two plastic grocery bags. She set the bags down on the floor for a moment while she hung up her coat. Then she picked the bags back up and hurried past the two children.

“What's that you got?” Will called after her.

“Frozen dinners,” Francesca breezily replied. “Go do your homework. I'll call you when it's time to eat.”

Once in the kitchen, Francesca put the bags on the counter and, from one of them, pulled out two half-gallon plastic containers. The tubs, two of the many old ice-cream containers she saved to store leftover food in, held the extra tomato sauce and meatballs she liked to keep on hand in her freezer at home. Solid as rocks, they thudded against the counter when she set them down. She peeked in the other bag to make sure it still held the box of spaghetti and the little container of grated cheese she had also brought along just in case she had been called upon to cook dinner. That little bit about frozen dinners had only been a white lie, Francesca reflected as she pried off the tops of the sauce and meatball containers. Most of this dinner was frozen at the moment—but it wouldn't be for long.

There were a thousand other meals Francesca might have conjured up for dinner that evening, but to her recollection, no child she had ever encountered disliked spaghetti and meatballs. Like the chocolate chip cookies, it was a safe bet. Just the same, she held her breath when she called the children back to the kitchen and set the pot of steaming, sauce-drenched noodles and meatballs on the table. She would have liked to serve it in a nice big pasta bowl, but there was none to be had. Presentation, however, was not something that overly concerned her. The food was what counted. And besides, throwing the spaghetti back into the same pot in which she had boiled it would make for less work when it came time to clean up. It had been enough of a job just cleaning one side of the sink so she could strain it all.

Any misgivings Francesca might have had about the meal she had prepared were instantly dispelled when she saw the hungry looks on the children's faces when they came to the table. “Get some clean plates—or bowls would be better,” she said, giving Penny a nod. To Will she said, “And you get some forks and spoons.”

The two did as they were told and watched eagerly as Francesca filled their dishes. To her chagrin, however, the two took their dinners and waltzed away toward the living room.

“Ayyy!” Francesca exclaimed, stopping them dead in their tracks. “Where are you two going?”

“To watch TV while we eat,” said Will, not at all understanding the look of outrage on his babysitter's face.

“In my house,” Francesca replied cooly, “when I cook a meal, people sit down at the table and eat it together.”

“Well…this is not your house,” said Penny in a much meeker tone than she had hoped for. She was summoning up as much defiance as she could, but she was finding it quite difficult to do, given the fact that she was dying to get a taste of the spaghetti.

Francesca cowed the girl with a withering look. “This might not be my house, but that's my food I just cooked, so you do what I say if you want to eat it.”

“But you didn't say anything last night,” countered Will, who was no less anxious to set his teeth into one of the meatballs on his plate.

“That's because I didn't cook that meal,” Francesca replied. “I just thawed it out, which is not the same thing. This one's all mine—so back to the table, you two.”

Seeing her resolve, and realizing that they were not making their case, the two siblings looked at one another for a moment and reluctantly trudged back to the table. Francesca filled a plate for herself, and the three sat down together to eat.

“Now, isn't this nice?” said Francesca, all the time feeling more and more in her own element. She waited for an answer, but the two children already had their mouths full. “Here, put a little cheese on that,” she said, opening the container of grated Romano and reaching for the spoon. “And sit up straight when you eat. And chew that food good before you swallow it. Then both of you can tell me all about your day at school.”