‘Nothing wrong with it. I like it. It’s full of soul. You are imprinted all over this kitchen.’ He gestured to the red heart-shaped plastic mirror pinned to the exposed brick wall over the small washbasin by the fridge. Then he nodded towards the mint-green vintage analogue radio perched atop the open shelving unit. But it was the items she kept over the workbench that he just had to comment on. ‘This collection is by far my favourite.’ In mismatched frames were icons of Francesca’s culinary experience: Jesus Christ, wrapped in gossamer white robes, arms outstretched as he welcomed humanity into his safety, featuring the words Gesù prega per noi in gold embossed lettering; a black and white image of Sophia Loren twirling spaghetti around her fork; and the depiction of a kind-faced bearded man whom Alessio recognised immediately. ‘Padre Pio. God love him.’
‘You know Padre Pio?’
‘Know him? That very picture used to hang in three places in my nonna’s house. The first was in the laundry, attached to the wall with a series of decades-old calendars and random fridge magnets from capital cities all over the world. She never visited one of them herself, mind you. The second was in the kitchen, attached to the back of the walk-in pantry door, with a set of rosary beads stuck to the frame. And the third was over the sink in the garage kitchen.’
‘Your nonni had a kitchen in the garage?’
‘Yeah. The car stayed under the carport. It never went in there. The garage held the second kitchen, including the second fridge. That’s where Nonna and Nonno ran their illegal distillery, making all kinds of spirits and wine.’ He rolled his eyes as he fondly remembered how they professed the quality of their blends, which only reminded Alessio of the smell of paint thinner. ‘And, you know, all the passata. Hundreds of bottles of tomatoes, filled by hand. That all happened in the garage under Padre Pio’s watchful eye.’
‘You know, he is very special to Puglia. He spent many of his years living and working in Foggia. The next province over.’
Alessio thought about that a moment. Did this explain his nonna’s fascination with Padre Pio? All the ricordini, the prayer cards, the statues and plaques on the mantle, by her bed?
‘He was actually called Francesco. We have many Francescos in these lands of Puglia, and I personally think it’s because of him.’
‘Were you named after him?’ Alessio watched as she leaned a hip against the edge of the workbench.
‘No, no. I was named after this man.’ She pointed up to the fourth print on the wall, which was of a man staring forlornly into a sacred light. ‘San Francesco Caracciolo. The patron saint of Italian cooks. Papà always said it was his idea to call me Francesca after San Francesco. And now, whenever I come into the kitchen, I always greet San Francesco because I feel he is protecting me . . .’ Her voice faltered for a moment. ‘Especially nowadays. I keep him close, because if anyone can help protect our little kitchen, it can only be Francesco.’
Without conscious thought, Alessio reached out and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. ‘That’s a great thing to have in your kitchen culture repertoire.’
‘Grazie. Mamma thinks it’s silly and always . . . uhm. Mi deride?’ She turned to face him and forced a petulant sigh from her lips to demonstrate.
‘She scoffs?’
‘Esatto! Scoffs.’ Her right hand flew through the air as if slapping the verb into her mental vocabulary bank.
From what he’d seen with his own eyes, and the patchwork of stories Francesca was slowly sharing with him, Alessio made up his mind that while he would remain civil and polite in his interactions with Elena, he most certainly didn’t like her.
‘I’m sorry. That’s just shit.’
‘Ha! It is shit!’ She looked up at San Francesco Caracciolo. ‘E che dici tu, eh?’
‘I don’t know about good old Francesco there, but I say we get this show on the road. Ready to teach me everything you know about pasta?’
‘I will certainly try.’
‘Good!’ He was glad to see her spirits return as she flattened down her apron. ‘Just one sec.’ He put a hand on her forearm. ‘If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right.’ He cleared his throat and directed his most theatrical voice to the printed congregation pinned to the wall above them. ‘Buonasera, Jesus, Sophia, Padre Pio. And . . . buonasera, San Francesco.’ He gave a cheeky wink, then stage-whispered, ‘I think I’m allowed in the Secret Life of Pasta club now.’
Francesca chuckled at his side. ‘You’re an official member. Now, pull down your board and let’s get started.’
The pair each took a large wooden pasta board with a hooking lip that caught the edge of the bench to ensure stability. They fetched the ‘00’ flour, a carton of eggs from the fridge and set it all between their boards.
It was a small white chipped teacup with a blue decorative rim, however, that caught Alessio’s eye. Francesca had brought it over from its previous position next to the Virgin Mary–shaped bottle of holy water by the stovetop.
‘What’s that?’
‘My most treasured possession. My tazza della pasta.’ She passed it to him. ‘It was part of a set Nonna received from all her loved ones as a wedding gift. It’s the last piece.’
‘What do you use it for?’ Given the chips, a once-repaired crack and areas of faded glaze, this little teacup had certainly lived a rich, full life.
‘We use this as our flour measure.’ She reached for the bag of flour and proceeded to open it, scooping the cup through the pure white ‘00’ flour. Once happy with the amount in the cup she levelled it off with the blade of a sharp knife, then emptied it onto Alessio’s board.
Our flour measure?
Alessio’s mind seized and he suddenly realised just how different their approaches to cooking were. How could this teacup be a reliable measure?
‘What’s your flour to egg ratio?’ he asked, already guessing what would come next.
