“What do you mean, who?” insists Giliola in her nasal voice. “Ricasoli’s nephew!”
“No sign of him yet,” Mamma snaps, waving them away.
“What a shame!” exclaims Giliola, ignoring Mamma’s invitation to leave. She surveys the kitchen, while Regina lowers her eyes to the tart in her hand, disappointed.
“Did you make apricot jam?” asks Giliola inquisitively, nodding toward the row of steaming jars lined up on the shelf.
Mamma sighs nervously. “What does it look like to you?”
“You waited too long!” Giliola immediately criticizes her. “They were at their best last week.”
“We made some on Saturday, and I put it in the tart,” adds Regina.
“Did you remember to use sugar instead of salt this time?” Donatella asks pointedly. Last year, she’d made half the village sick.
“What were you all on about, anyway?” asks Giliola, evading the dig.
“Horses,” we hasten to say.
Giliola shrugs, disinterested. If she only knew ... “Let’s hope Charles arrives in time for the Schiacciata Festival. We should tell the Pro Loco committee to include him on the jury as an honorary judge.”
The Schiacciata Festival is a no-holds-barred competition: sabotaged leavening, ingredient theft, broken ovens ...
Until five years ago, we made theschiacciataat home and brought them to the jury for a tasting, but Giliola accused Mamma of presentinga schiacciata so perfect that it must have come from the baker, and since then the whole process has taken place publicly in Belvedere’s little square. Much to Giliola’s dismay, Mamma won again the following year, effectively proving that hers was the best of the best.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be here for the occasion,” observes Giada acidly. “I bet he can’t wait.”
“Men like women who know how to cook,” replies Giliola. “But what do you know about cooking, Miss Priss? And those fingernails! You couldn’t even peel a potato.”
“Then I’ll be going in style, because I’m not the least bit interested in peeling potatoes,” Giada retorts, and I applaud her in my head.
There’s another knock at the door. Giliola and her daughter perk up, but when Mamma opens the door to Angela and her daughter Sara holding a tray of liver crostini, their faces twist into a disappointed grimace.
“Is he here?” asks Angela anxiously.
“No,” Donatella replies dryly.
“Oh, we thought he’d be here by now. He and Vannucci the notary were supposed to arrive this evening.”
“And somehow they’ve yet to appear,” reiterates Mamma. Angela and Sara join us inside, exchanging resentful glances with Giliola and her daughter. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Indeed,” replies Giliola.
“What a beautiful, relaxed atmosphere,” I comment ironically. “Anyone want some chamomile tea? A sedative? A horse tranquilizer, perhaps?”
“Do you have any glue?” Giliola asks. “That way we can seal Angela’s mouth shut once and for all.”
“Whose mouth would you of all people like to shut?” protests Angela.
“You heard me. I know you say I’m cheap behind my back, you old bat.”
“It’s the truth. You asked me for your old aluminum cannelloni mold back, and when I told you I’d thrown it out, you got mad and demanded I buy you a new one,” Angela replies.
“Okay, I lent you my cannelloni mold, andI’mthe cheap one!”
“You made yours with eggs from my chickens.”
“You gave them to me!” replies Giliola, increasingly flustered. “You gave them to me because you had too many and were going to throw them away.”
