That morning’s cookery lesson crawled past like a steam-powered road-roller with a bad attitude. Nobody else was in the least bit perturbed by the slow progress of the clock, and Amy supposed she shouldn’t be so concerned, either – because it was time spent with Tad, even if what she really wanted was time alone with him.
Amy had always enjoyed cooking, but somehow this morning she found herself wishing she wasn’t so proficient. That she could call on Tad for help with stretching her pizza dough on the baking tray like Kathleen did, after the older woman had declared her base was similar to a religious experience. Holy – as in more holes than dough.
Amy found herself wishing her risotto rice might catch on the bottom of the pan like Billie’s seemed to be doing, each time accompanied by a cry for assistance and a girly giggle as Malcolm took yet more photos of her taking instruction from Tad.
It wasn’t as though he didn’t glance her way often enough, or make sure he passed by her workstation, brushing against her as he walked. It wasn’t as though they didn’t share plenty of those ‘under the radar’ smiles, loaded with meaning only they understood. But even so, it wasn’t enough. She wanted this part of the day to evaporate, so they could spend proper time together.
And by the time the group was spooning their mascarpone-ricotta mixtures into piping bags, and Clare managed to squish most of hers back out of the bag and all over the table, rather than into the cannoli – with Tad leaping to her side to help her sort out the mess – Amy had to admit she’d lost her appetite for any of the food they’d prepared.
Eventually the lesson, and then lunch, was finished and she waited for Tad outside, in the shade created by the overhanging first floor of Casa del Cibo. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on the uneven cobbles of the street, and Amy had made sure to use some factor 50 this time. She wasn’t going to get caught out twice by the intensity of the Mediterranean sun. Other intensities, maybe, but not the sun.
She was fiddling with her sunglasses, untangling them from strands of hair, when he took the hotel steps two at a time and grinned.
‘Ready to go?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, shoving her glasses up into her hair and smiling as he reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers as they stepped into the bright sunshine.
* * *
Malcolm’s Cannoli
150g plain flour
1 tablespoon golden caster sugar
Large pinch bicarbonate of soda
½ teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon cocoa powder (optional)
30g butter
1 egg, separated – ha, the irony. Malcolm wonders how you might divorce the egg…
50ml dry marsala, or white wine – either one is fine by Malcolm
50g dark chocolate, melted – yum
Handful of pistachio kernels, finely chopped – again, yum
Icing sugar, to dust – yet more yum
For the filling:
250g ricotta, drained and beaten until fluffy
100g mascarpone
2 tablespoons finely chopped candied peel – not his fave tbh, but Malc was surprised how good it tasted
2 tablespoons icing sugar
This is enough to make twelve cannoli, and apparently, to do it properly you’ll need cannoli moulds. Malcolm recognises he didn’t get hands-on with any of the actual cookery – no doubt his ex-wife would find no surprise there, but he did take some awesome photos.
If you are doing the making: tip the flour, sugar, bicarb, cinnamon and cocoa into a bowl with a pinch of salt. Add butter and rub together until there are no lumps. Mix the egg yolk and marsala, add to the flour mixture and mix/knead into a smooth dough. Wrap and rest in the fridge. If you’re organised, you can make this the day before.
Fill a deep-fat fryer (or deep saucepan) a third of the way up with oil.
