‘One egg, more or less, to one tazza della pasta of flour, per person.’
‘And how much flour is in the cup?’
Dropping a second scoop of flour on Alessio’s board, she shrugged. ‘Boh! I have no idea. It’s the right amount. You get the most perfect dough every time.’ Could she read the concerned expression Alessio knew was showing on his face? He suspected as much, because she added, ‘Why? What’s wrong?’
Everything’s wrong! Using a teacup to measure flour? And a cup so worn and chipped that it shouldn’t even be in the kitchen? There are hygiene and sanitation standards for a reason. They ALSO extend to equipment use!
Alessio considered his wording carefully. ‘I am used to . . . For me, precision . . .’
Francesca’s shoulders dropped back, her eyebrows rising. ‘Alessio . . .’
He watched as her hands with their red-painted nails came to rest on her hips, just as he had seen Elena’s do a number of times already.
‘What’s wrong?’ she repeated.
‘Sorry.’ He shook out his limbs. ‘I’m in my head. Old habits die hard.’
‘And what is your head telling you? We need to be honest and open with each other.’
‘One hundred grams of flour per egg. To the gram. Dependent on the flour blend. But if we’re keeping it simple, that’s what my head is telling me. And it can’t reconcile how your cup – and sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, because it’s clearly very special to you – can guarantee a pinpoint-accurate measure.’
Francesca’s fingers steepled at her lips for a moment. ‘And tell me, when you measure your hundred grams of farina, are you also measuring the weight of your eggs? Are you accounting for egg white to yolk ratio?’
Oooft. She’s good.
‘Generally, we would buy eggs which measure at the farm-graded large size and use that commercial standard.’
‘But, not “to the gram” accurate, no?’ She cocked her head confidently to the side, and seeing the flash of her deep brown eyes, Alessio knew she had him.
He dropped his head. ‘No. I guess not.’
‘Allora,’ she said, returning to the flour, scooping two perfect cups onto her board. ‘Let’s do this my way, then. Because in my kitchen, this always works.’
She opened the carton of eggs and Alessio could immediately see they were fresh and of local origin. These eggs still featured smatterings of whatever had been kicked around at the bottom of the chicken coop, including short strands of hay which had dried against the shell.
His hand stopped mid-reach, but he forced it the rest of the way. The eggs were a mishmash of sizes. Two were significantly larger than the others, and there were three that were little larger than quail eggs.
So different. Don’t fight it. Just go with it.
He chose two that were similar in size from the collection and cracked them into the well he’d made in the flour with his fingers. She did the same, perhaps choosing one of the smallest eggs and one of the largest just to needle him.
She tossed the shells into the food scraps bucket under the bench. ‘For our compost.’ Then she pierced her yolks with a confident poke, and with deft figure eight movements, proceeded to pull the wall of flour down into the egg mixture.
Alessio followed suit, feeling completely at ease. He’d made so much pasta across his career, he could’ve done this single-handed and with his eyes closed. But then, the irritation returned.
Watching Francesca’s hands move over the pasta dough, roll around, push it up and over on the bench, his attention was drawn to her nail polish. ‘Those nails wouldn’t pass in my kitchen,’ he said without thinking. He hadn’t meant it as a jibe, merely a passing comment, but Francesca stopped kneading and looked at him.
‘These beauties?’ She fanned her doughy hands out for him to inspect. ‘I happen to adore my red nails.’
‘I know you do. And you’re allowed to. But at home, you wouldn’t be able to work in a commercial kitchen with the polish.’
Francesca laughed and turned back to her work. ‘Good thing we’re in my kitchen now.’ She continued kneading.
Fuck. You just can’t control yourself, can you? Leave her alone. This is her kitchen. Not yours. Let it go.
Alessio closed his eyes for a moment to focus on his breath, and his psychologist Patrick’s voice returned to his memory.
‘You are programmed this way, Alessio. You have built these patterns not just in the kitchen, but over your lifetime. You’ve absorbed these from your family, your friends, your childhood. Literally every experience you’ve had has conditioned you this way. You may never be able to turn off your critical brain. But you can become friends with it. Acknowledge it. Learn to discern between being critical at your expense, and critical at the expense of others.’
