Despite being far from home, Stella felt perfectly at ease. She snuggled closer to Marcella and readjusted the blanket that cocooned them together.
Noting how Marcella’s bottom lip had pursed, and her eyes had flicked to the kitchen, Stella was obligated to ask, ‘You’re hungry, aren’t you?’
‘Come il lupo!’
As quickly as she had tucked in the blanket, Stella had flicked it off again. ‘It’s eleven-fifteen!’
‘The perfect time for acacio e pepe.’
Celebrating her second Christmas in Rome would be very different from her first, which was marred with uncertainty and homesickness. Christmas Eve would take a new form – celebrating not having phone sex, and eating pasta just before midnight.
And she couldn’t have been happier.
With the table festively set for six and lunch cooking away in the oven, Marcella and Stella could finally relax into the Christmas spirit. Stella had chosen a classic seasonal playlist for the morning, with the likes of Bing Crosby and Nat ‘King’ Cole filling the apartment, no doubt entertaining even their neighbours.
‘I just love this song!’ Marcella cheered as ‘White Christmas’ waltzed through the sound system. She sang along. ‘Bravo, Bing!’ Stella found her pronunciation, with a hardG, particularly endearing this morning.
‘Marcella . . .’ Stella began.
‘Sì?’ she answered, looking up from folding napkins at the table.
‘No, nothing. It’s all good.’ She smiled, giving Marcella a reverse cuddle as she passed her on her way to her bedroom. ‘What do you say we light the cinnamon candles I bought at last year’ssaldi?’
‘Sì, sì.’
Within minutes, a warming cinnamon-vanilla tinted perfume resonated throughout the apartment, as if there were a golden-brown sugar-flecked apple pie baking in the oven.
Stella opened the packet of bonbons she had picked up earlier in the week – thankfully, there were more than six – and set one down by each wine glass.
In the centre of the table, she arranged a handful of pine cones. Small and shaped like little domes, she had collected them from the trees in the Parco del Gianicolo last Christmas. Taking fresh sprigs of holly and some florist wire, she wound a little green posey around the base of the two large pillar candles, which stood proudly at either end of the table. Marcella had finished folding the white linen napkins into decorative fans, which perfectly accented the forest green of the tablecloth.
Christmas had finally arrived in all its seasonal glory.
The rich aroma of lunch had escaped the oven. The girls had prepared slow-cooked lamb shoulder – a step away from the more traditionalabbacchio a scottadito– which was bubbling away in an aromatic bath of freshbrodo, red wine and woody herbs. On the stove top sat a Dutch oven, within which a lusciousragùwas working on developing its deep flavour profile. This would be served with the fresh eggtagliatellethey had made, which was drying in perfectly wound nests on the kitchen bench.
Stella had tried to insist that it would be perfectly acceptable to serve good quality dried pasta from the supermarket, as not only would it save preparation time, but it would also make the cleaning process easier. Her suggestion had prompted a disapproving death stare from the Bolognese, who reminded her of the sacred nature of the day, and the fact that it went against her other religion – being food, of course – to serveragùwith dried pasta.
Carlotta arrived carrying her handbag and a boxedpandoro.
‘Ah.Pandoro. Why can’t it hang around all year? I wouldn’t eat anything else,’ Stella commented, relieving Carlotta of the box.
‘For exactly that reason!’ Carlotta laughed. They shared extra-long Christmas hugs and kisses.
‘If they always madepandoro, we would tire of it, and it would no longer be special,eh?’ Marcella flitted around, adjusting the table setting for the fifth time.
The guys arrived in unison, meeting by chance on Via di San Calisto. As to be expected, Giacomino brought with him a selection of wine to share, and Ignazio and Marco a parcel of sweets and pastries left over from the previous day’s trade.
‘Che profumo!’ Marco exclaimed as he entered the apartment, taking in the wonderful smell of lunch that met them at the door. He greeted the girls before heading to the kitchen to put dessert in the fridge.
Giacomino and Marcella shared a no-holds-barred passionate kiss, all in the name of Christmas, of course. Ignazio and Carlotta were left at the door to greet each other in a more dignified manner.
Inadvertently, or so she would say, Marcella had effectively paired everyone up. Ignazio sat across from Carlotta on one end, with Marcella and Giacomino on the other and Marco and Stella in the middle.
Lunch, as to be expected, was a pants-loosening success. They had slurped their way through thetagliatelle al ragù, commenting on the silkiness of the pasta and richness of the sauce. Meanwhile, the four hours of cooking served the lamb well, as it dramatically slipped off the bone and split effortlessly with the back of a fork. The salty juices, which Marcella had reduced, provided a welcome contrast from the fatty sweetness of the meat. The potatoes, which they had par-cooked prior to roasting, were crisp on the outside and fluffy on the inside. The mixed greens, which Stella had blanched then tossed with olive oil and a pinch of salt, were bright in colour with just a little bite left in the stalks. It was a job very well done.
Conversation had been jovial, with Ignazio more at ease than he had been at Stella’s party a few days earlier. The chatter flowed and the mood was light. Marco did the honours in the kitchen and prepped a round of coffee and digestif for everyone, while Stella set about getting thepandoroready for its grand entrance.
Opening the box, she withdrew the sachet of icing sugar, then snipped a hole in the plastic bag containing the cake. The intoxicating scent of vanilla reached her nostrils, and her mouth watered. She emptied most of the icing sugar into the hole, and ensuring just the right amount of air was trapped inside the plastic bag, she twisted off the end. Giving it a gentle shake, she evenly dispersed the icing sugar over the cake’s eight pointed segments.
