Elena’s eyebrows rose, but without their usual scorn. ‘Bravo, Alessio. You are always looking after Francesca. I . . . I appreciate it.’ Elena’s lips formed the gentlest, most perfect smile Francesca had ever witnessed on her mother. ‘It seems you are ready to go, then.’
‘That’s it?’ Francesca had prepared for a battle. For their truce to simply peel away and for Elena to revert to form. But no. A tiny bloom of warmth and hope sprang up in her chest. ‘You’ll let me go?’
As if it were the most preposterous question to ask, Elena laughed. ‘You don’t need my permission, Cesca. You’re thirty-three years old. You’re a woman! You can do as you please! We can slow down here for the week. My casts are due to come off on Monday. And besides, a week off might be what we all need. It’s been a long summer.’
Close? A week off?
These were suggestions never even contemplated before Elena’s accident. In breaking her arms, had something else broken, too? Her rigidity? Her desire to control everything and save face above all? Her inability to let things go?
‘Then . . . can I please have your blessing?’ Her chest rose behind the sweetheart neckline of her dress. ‘Because, even if you don’t believe it, your support is the one thing I’ve sought most of my life.’ Her voice trembled at this admission, vulnerable as she now felt after years of feeling less than supported and valued. Alessio’s hand squeezed hers under the table.
‘You have my blessing, Cesca. In fact . . .’ Elena’s eyes came to rest on the place where Francesca’s arm met Alessio’s before descending under the table. ‘You both do.’
quarantadue
Francesca’s heart felt heavy the following evening as she and Alessio faced the reality of a final night together. They had spent the day treasuring all the memories they’d made over the summer.
Fragrant kisses among the cherries. Herb-picking in the Fiore garden. Playing cards with the Signori by the bar. A generous helping of pasticciotti care of Ornella, who shed embarrassingly loud tears upon hearing of Alessio’s return to Melbourne. A shared aperitivo of Spritzes and Negronis with Carlo and Simona at U Ssale. An afternoon spent tangled in each other’s arms at the finocchio di mare cove. Followed by sweaty tear-soaked sex in their apartment, after which neither wanted to let go, their limbs stitched together through each pulse, pull and thrust.
The summer had bound them so perfectly, heart and soul.
‘There’s just one last thing I want to teach you before you go,’ she began, pulling down her pasta board on the terrazzo’s kitchen bench. ‘And somehow I always thought this moment – our last cook together – might be the perfect time to share it with you.’
Alessio held her from behind, his chin resting on her crown. ‘Teach me.’
‘Consider this the quarta tappa of the Festa della Pasta. The fourth round. When I get to cook something that represents you.’
‘Me?’
‘Sì, tu.’ She nodded, swallowing down her emotions. ‘This one is for you.’ She pulled him back to her side and straightened his board. ‘Tonight we are going to make orecchiette with toasted flour, in a white sauce.’ She plucked a brand-new bag of flour from under the bench and set it on his board. ‘Grano arso, or grano bruciato, is burned, toasted wheat. It is ground and a flour is made. Senti il profumo.’ She opened the bag and held it aloft.
Alessio dipped his nose in. ‘Smoky.’
‘From the burned grain. It’s treasured in Puglia. It’s a deeply nostalgic part of our pasta history, using the last of the grain that was destroyed after the fields were burned back.’
‘It’s strong.’ Alessio wafted the bag again.
‘You cannot use it straight. You must blend it with tipo ‘00’. The flavour alone is too much, and the gluten weakened by the toasting.’
‘The colour is other-worldly.’ He dipped the tazza della pasta into the flour, noting the silky grey tones.
‘Allora, for the last time, shall we explore the Secret Life of Pasta together?’
‘I want nothing more.’
With their usual spirited enjoyment, the two transformed the grano arso flour into a majestic delight, mixing it perfectly with the tipo ‘00’. In tandem the two cracked their eggs and began, working the dough to perfection. In the process, they let go of the heaviness of the evening and gave in to the joy that had glittered throughout their summer.
With new expert confidence, Alessio formed each of the orecchiette with deft hands, hardly needing to look down as he worked but rather holding eye contact with Francesca while they laughed.
‘And the sauce?’
‘In bianco. The most comforting, soulful concoction to exist in the pasta world.’ She grated a large wodge of parmiggiano cheese into a stainless-steel bowl. Into that she added a dash of hot vegetable broth, some of the orecchiette’s cooking water, a pinch of sea salt, and amalgamated it into a creamy whip. She dipped the tip of her little finger into the mix and brought it to Alessio’s lips. ‘Assaggia.’
His tongue caught her finger and wrapped around it, catching the sauce and her attention. ‘Speechless.’
She winked. ‘You could add some pecorino, garlic, an egg yolk, or even herbs. But tonight, let’s keep it simple. Tonight, it’s about the grano arso.’ With one skilled swoop, Francesca plucked the inner colander of the pasta pot from the water and allowed it to partially drain, before tossing the hot orecchiette into the sauce bowl. ‘Stir. Toss it through and watch the sauce loosen to a cream.’
Alessio did as he was told, and true to her word, it all combined.
