Francesca's Kitchen (21 page)

“W
ell, hello, Mrs. Campanile,” said a yawning Tony. “It's been a while since the last time I saw you in the store at this hour. Cooking dinner for the family today?”

It was Sunday morning. Anxious to get to the market early, Francesca had roused herself from bed the moment the first rays of the rising sun had touched her eyes. With a yawn of her own, she pushed her carriage up to the register and shook her head.

“Not exactly, Tony,” she replied as she put the chicken cutlets and the rest of her groceries up on the counter. “My son decided at the last minute to have some friends over to his apartment today, to watch the big football game, so he called me last night and asked me to make a little something for them to eat. Can you believe it?”

“Hey, I don't blame him,” said Tony, smiling. “You can't have a Super Bowl party without food.”

“Eh, I guess,” grunted Francesca, trying her best to sound annoyed, even though she was inwardly delighted. She had never been a particularly avid sports fan, so the game held little interest for her. Just the same, any opportunity to put her cooking skills to work for her son made it a happy occasion. She gave a scowl nonetheless. “It would have been nice if he at least let me know about it a day or two in advance,” she griped.

“Ayyy, you know how kids are,” laughed Tony. “They're all the same, even after they grow up.”

“I'm not sure if all mine are completely grown-up yet,” Francesca sighed.

“Yeah, but would you want them any other way?” said Tony.

“Probably not,” admitted Francesca. Then, leaning closer, she added, “But don't tell them that.”

When she returned home, the first thing Francesca did after bringing the groceries into the kitchen was to put on some music on the living room stereo. Francesca loved music. For her, it was as integral a part of Sundays as was dinner with the family. Good music complemented good food like a pleasant bottle of wine, and Francesca reveled in their blending, especially when she was cooking. That's when a symphony of sounds and smells would fill her home. Ask any of her children to name some of their favorite reminiscences of growing up, and sooner or later all of them would inevitably mention awakening on Sunday mornings to the sound of Verdi, Puccini, Mozart, or Strauss playing on the record player in the living room, or sometimes to the voice of Francesca herself crooning along with Sinatra or Tony Bennett. Along with the music, the delightful smell of whatever happened to be baking in the oven would float up the stairs to their bedrooms like notes in an arpeggio, rousing them from their slumbers, so that for the rest of their lives, the sounds of many pieces of music were forever coded in their memories along with the warm, pleasing aroma of food.

Later that same morning, as it was nearing midday, Francesca was listening to Beethoven's Ninth while squeezing the juice of a lemon onto the lightly breaded pieces of golden brown chicken she had been sautéing on the stove. The juice evaporated with a hiss when it hit the pan, but it would leave the meat with a nice tangy flavor. Humming along to the music, Francesca tossed a pinch of salt over the chicken for good measure, and covered the pan with a lid. In a separate frying pan on another burner sizzled sliced artichoke hearts, zucchini, scallions, garlic, and olives. Francesca gave it all a stir before turning her attention to the oven. She opened the door and peered in to get an assessment of the two big foil pans baking inside. Satisfied with what she found, she covered each of them, closed the oven door, and turned off the heat.

By the time Joey arrived a short while later, the orchestra had made it to the symphony's fifth movement. Though she spoke not a word of German, Francesca was ramping herself up to join in with the chorus when her son walked into the kitchen. She had been in soaring good spirits all that morning even before he arrived. Alice and Rosie had called earlier; both had talked of a possible trip home to visit in the summer. Added to her elation at the prospect of seeing all her grandchildren together was the distinct satisfaction she felt at how much better things seemed to be going for her at the Simmons house. Loretta had surprised her Saturday afternoon by sending a nice little floral arrangement to say thank-you for taking care of her all week. Displayed in their vase atop the dining room table, the flowers reinforced in Francesca a feeling of confidence and optimism every time she looked at them. All in all, she had already been in a mood to sing. Seeing her son put her over the top.

“Hey, there you are,” she said merrily as she pushed the chicken from the skillet into an empty foil pan. “You're just in time. Listen, they're playing ‘Ode to Joey'!”

It was obviously still too early in the day for her son to appreciate the joke, for his only response was a blank look and a shrug. He ambled over to the counter to get a peek at what his mother had prepared.

Francesca shook her head and clicked her tongue at him. “Let me tell you something,” she said testily. “That's as good a joke as you're going to hear all day.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted her son. “So, whatcha got cookin'? It looks good.”

Francesca didn't reply right away, but instead took the other frying pan from the stove and pushed all the artichokes and zucchini and olives into the foil pan with the chicken. Humming along to the chorus, she began to mix it all together.

“Listen to that music,” she mused. “Imagine how good it must have felt to write a song like that. I mean, the first time he heard it in his head. What was it like for him?”

“I'm guessing he was joyful,” said Joey, deadpan.

“Oh, so the brain is finally up and running after all,” she chided him, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I remember you making wandies one time when this song was playing.” Then, furrowing his brow, he added, “Don't ask me how I remember that.”

“Out of my way,” said Francesca, elbowing her son away from the stove. She bent over and opened the oven door. Reaching in with a pot holder, she pulled out the two foil pans and set them on the counter. She lifted off one of the foil covers, releasing an aromatic burst of steam. “Here,” she said, “have a look. I made you some sausage and peppers. And in the other one is the baked ziti.”

“
Madonna mia,
” marveled Joey.

“Hey, watch that mouth,” said Francesca, even though she was quite pleased by his reaction.

“But Mom, you cooked so much. The chicken would have been plenty. You didn't have to do all that.”

“What, you're gonna be
scumbarì
and not have enough food for everybody?” she scoffed. “Just shut up and take it.”

“You're the boss,” said Joey. He reached toward the pan to sample a piece of the sausage, but his mother swatted his hand away.

“Hands off,” she snipped. “Go sit down for two minutes if you want to try some.” With that, she nudged him toward the table before reaching for the bag of rolls she had bought earlier that morning at the bakery. She opened one of the rolls and layered the inside with some sausage and peppers before spooning on some of the olive oil and juice from the pan. She put the sandwich on a dish and set it on the table before her son. “So, anybody special coming to watch the game with you today?” she asked, taking a seat across from him.

Joey well understood from experience what his mother meant by “special.” “No, Mom,” he said with a shake of his head. “I'm just having a few friends over, so please don't start. Just let me enjoy my sausage and peppers.”

“Who's starting anything?” huffed Francesca defensively. “I was just asking a simple question.”

“Yes, but that was just a different version of the same simple question you're always asking me.”

“What,” pouted Francesca, “I'm not supposed to want to see my son settled down and happy. Go ahead. Shoot me for being concerned.”

Joey let out a little laugh. “Well,” he said gently, “it hasn't quite come to that yet—not
yet
.” Then, looking away to the window, he suddenly shook his head, his smile fading away. “You know, it's not like I haven't been looking for someone,” he admitted in a weary voice. “Sometimes it feels like that's all I do. I'd settle down in a minute if I could find the right one. But it gets to the point where I don't even want to bother anymore.”

Francesca reached out and gave her son a gentle slap across the top of his head. “Maybe you're looking
too
hard,” she told him. “Maybe you should try a little less quantity and a little more quality, if you know what I mean. And who knows, maybe let someone find
you
.”

Joey made no further reply, other than to shrug and take a bite of his sandwich. The subject was once again closed.

Later, Francesca packed all the food into a pair of cardboard boxes. While he waited, Joey wandered into the dining room, where he noticed the flower arrangement on the table.

“Hey, what's this?” he called. “Who's sending you flowers? Somebody special?”

“None of your business,” Francesca called back, relieved that she had thought to tuck away the little card from Loretta. “Maybe I've a got a boyfriend. What's it to you?”

“Just askin',” said Joey, ambling back into the kitchen, where his mother was stacking one box atop the other.

“Here you go,” said Francesca, tucking the bag of rolls into the box before covering it all with a towel to keep everything warm.

Joey reached out and gave his mother a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, bella,” he said. “I owe you one.”

“Ayyy, you owe me a lot more than that,” said Francesca. Turning to the counter, she passed the boxes to her son and guided him to the door. “By the way, those flowers are just from a sick friend I cooked some food for last week.” This she told him hoping to preempt any suspicions her son might have. “And if you really think you owe me one,” she added, “you can pay me back by taking a look at my car one of these days. It's making some funny noises lately.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Joey. “I'll take a look at it any time you want—that is, any time I can find you at home.”

“Very funny” said Francesca, opening the door for him. “Just watch how you go, so you don't drop everything.”

Despite her good spirits of just a short time earlier, Francesca felt a pang as she watched Joey walk to his car. She had told her son another white lie, this time about the flowers. It was getting to be a bad habit, she realized. It bothered her for many reasons, not the least of which was her certainty that it was only a matter of time before one of the liberties she had been taking with the truth of late would come back to haunt her. She shuddered to think of the commotion it would cause with her children, particularly her daughters. It would be better, Francesca decided, to take control of the situation and tell them straight out what she had been doing. This she vowed to do very soon—just not today.

A
s it sometimes does during even the coldest of years, winter finally paused to catch its breath. The north winds fell silent for a few days, and a more gentle breeze puffed out of the south and west, nudging the daytime temperatures into the high thirties and occasionally the low forties, positively balmy in comparison to the bitter weather that had prevailed the previous several weeks. The February sun still climbed in a low arc through the vernal sky, but the days were growing ever so slightly longer. Little by little, patches of dark earth were beginning to show themselves everywhere outdoors; the ice and the snow were beginning to melt.

Francesca was too much a veteran of New England's peripatetic winters to be taken in by this midseason thaw. She had seen it all before, a winter that remained unnaturally warm for weeks on end, lulling everyone into the false hope that it had passed and an early spring was in the offing, only to suddenly return one day and attack once more, with all its wild, freezing fury. Nonetheless, though she trusted it little, Francesca was grateful for the respite from the arctic chill, for however long it lasted. If nothing else, the moderation of the weather put everyone, including herself, in a better mood.

Not to say that Francesca had been feeling downcast in any way. To the contrary, she could not remember a February when she had felt in better spirits. The few hours she spent with Penny and Will each afternoon brought a sense of order and purpose to her days that had long been missing. It gave her a thrill to see the two children come traipsing home from the bus stop every day. She enjoyed baking them after-school snacks and occasionally preparing dinner when Loretta had to work late. Most of all, she loved simply being there, to hear their stories about school, to share in their triumphs, or to comfort them when things did not go their way. She fell easily into the daily routine, for she found in it something comfortable and familiar, a feeling like that of an athlete returning to his training regimen after a long hiatus from competition. Will and Penny had become an important part of Francesca's days, and it gratified her deeply to think that she was becoming an important part of theirs.

This growing familiarity with one another, reassuring as it might have been, was not without its consequences. The children, particularly Penny, had long been accustomed to speaking their minds and easily manipulating their mother to get their way. In Francesca, they found a far less malleable authority figure, one who always insisted on getting her own way. Occasional clashes of will were inevitable, and Francesca's inevitably reigned, a state of affairs that did not always sit well with the two siblings, who decided one afternoon to try their hand at mutiny.

It was a dark, dreary day. A thin, miserable drizzle had misted down from the clouds all morning and into the afternoon, making it damp and foggy withal. It was a day best suited to hunkering down indoors and curling up by the fire, so it was a distinct disappointment to Penny and Will when they returned home from school and did not detect the aroma of something sweet baking in the oven when they walked through the front door. They made their displeasure known by unceremoniously dropping their backpacks and coats on the floor.

“Ayyy, is that where those go?” said Francesca, wagging a disapproving finger at them.

“I don't feel like hanging up my coat,” said Penny, slouching over to the computer in its new home on a little table by the bookshelf. Its relocation downstairs to the living room by their mother had proven to be a constant source of annoyance to the young girl.

“Me either,” said Will, emboldened by his sister's defiant attitude. With a long face, he turned on the television and plopped down on the couch.

Having anticipated their pique, Francesca said nothing, for she knew its precise source. Instead, she sat quietly at the kitchen table, leafing through a magazine, while the two children sulked in silence.

“I thought you said you were going to make us some gingerbread today,” Penny finally blurted out, getting straight to the heart of the matter.

“Yeah,” brooded Will.

Francesca closed the magazine and came into the living room.

“What I said,” she corrected them, “was that I would bake some gingerbread today—
if
you straightened up your rooms last night and made your beds this morning before school. From the looks of things upstairs, you didn't bother to do either, so I didn't bother to bake any gingerbread today.”

“But that's not fair!” Penny protested. “You're always making us do stuff we don't want to do. You're not our boss, you know!”

“Yeah,” added Will.

“And I'm not your chef,” Francesca pointed out. “Now, it's still early. Plenty of time for me to make a treat for you two to have for dessert, after your mother makes supper. But if you really want me to do it, you'll have to ask me nicely and—”

“And what?” the two children asked in unison.

“You'll have to straighten up your rooms and make your beds, like you promised. In any case, hang up those coats and hats before your mother gets home, and start your homework.”

There was no hesitation in Francesca's voice, no pleading for cooperation, and no hint in her tone that she was anything less than in complete control of the situation. For whatever reason—perhaps it had been a particularly long day at school—it was all too much for Penny to bear.

“No,” the girl said, glaring at the old woman with an expression of open rebellion. “I'm not going to do it.”

“Me neither,” said Will, though his demeanor was much less convincing. He sat there, cringing, as he waited to see what the old woman's response might be.

“Really,” said Francesca, giving them a withering glare of her own. “And just what do you plan to do instead?”

“Whatever we want,” declared Penny. “This is our house, not yours, so just leave us alone.”

“Yeah,” murmured Will, but with even less conviction than before.

Francesca folded her arms and scowled at the two mutineers.

A long, awkward silence ensued. No one, Francesca could tell, felt very good about the verbal skirmish that had just transpired, but for the time being at least, it appeared that the rebellion had fallen back to regroup.

“Well, you children do what you think best,” Francesca finally told them in a well-practiced tone of voice intended to inflict the maximum amount of guilt on its recipient. With that, she turned away from them and walked back into the kitchen. She sat down at the table and opened her magazine once more, pretending all the while to pay them no further attention, when in fact, she was watching closely out of the corner of her eye, waiting to see what they would do next.

Penny and Will stayed there in sullen silence, shooting questioning glances at one another. A silent debate was raging between them. To retreat to their bedrooms, Francesca understood, would signal outright surrender, but to just sit there doing nothing probably seemed as silly to them as it did to her. Finally, with a communal sigh of frustration, the two reluctantly slunk to the front hall, hung up their coats, and dragged their backpacks into the living room. Will turned off the television and pulled out his math book to start his homework, while his sister returned to the computer to work on a school project of her own. It was, Francesca supposed, as much of a face-saving solution as they could be expected to manage.

Barely a word was spoken in the house, until Loretta returned home from work. By this time, Penny and Will had finished their homework and were sitting on the couch, watching television. At hearing their mother open the door, the cue that they could, with honor, finally abandon their positions, the two jumped up and gave her the briefest of greetings before hurrying upstairs to the sanctuary of their rooms. They were, no doubt, anxious to be as far away as possible when their mother received the report of their attempted insurrection that afternoon. The two were long out of sight when Francesca came out of the kitchen to collect her things.

“Hi, Francesca,” said Loretta brightly, though there was a marked look of curiosity in her eyes. “Everything go okay today?”

“Yes, of course,” Francesca assured her, though she knew full well that Loretta had been around long enough to pick up on the strained atmosphere to which she had come home. Before the younger woman could pursue the subject, Francesca quickly engaged her in some idle small talk about the weather and something she had read in the morning newspaper while she pulled on her coat and gloves. She was just about ready to get on her way home when Will and Penny suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. As solemn and contrite a pair of children as she had ever beheld, the two looked down at her with sad, penitent eyes. Returning their gaze, Francesca gave a half smile and nodded to them in a gesture of patience and understanding.

“Are you sure everything is all right?” said Loretta at witnessing this quiet exchange.

“Trust me, everything's fine,” said Francesca, patting the younger woman's hand. “Good night, children.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. C,” they answered. Then, as Francesca was walking out the door, Penny meekly added, “Thank you.”

Giving a wave over her shoulder, Francesca went on her way.

After watching to make sure that the older woman made it safely to her car, Loretta closed the door and turned to face her children, who by now were sitting on the top stair, looking gloomier than ever.

“What's going on, guys?” she asked with growing concern. “What's with the long faces? Did something happen today?”

“Yeah,” Penny admitted. “Sort of.”

“What? Tell me.”

Neither child said anything, until Will finally shrugged and gave a heavy sigh.

“She made our beds,” he said.