Alessio turned and propped himself on outstretched arms on his mobile workbench.
Sweetest?
He tried to reach past the adrenaline and focus solely on his palate. What was uniquely ‘Impastino’, but also sweet?
The grapes. The sultanas.
Cinnamon.
Pine nuts.
The flora-infused honey.
The sea air . . .
Yesterday’s vision of Francesca bringing a delicately fuzzed peach to the tip of her nose tore through his focus.
Peaches? No.
Then it was a mouthful of the honey-caramel-coated popcorn of the night before, and the way she had licked the tips of her fingers between nibbles.
No. This isn’t the time.
Dried figs.
Golden spiked fichi d’India, picked and consumed still sun-warm.
The image of Francesca reaching up to pick the cherries by the roadside fluttered temptingly across his mind.
One for the basket, one for her perfectly luscious li—
Alessio’s eyes flicked open and he bolted from the stage, pulling his councillor along behind him.
* * *
With his tray at the ready, Alessio surveyed Trattoria dei Fiori’s kitchen to see what he had at his disposal.
He grabbed the ‘00’ flour and Francesca’s tazza della pasta. An egg-less pasta base was what he needed. Lighter, in both colour and in the mouth.
And colour? Colour . . .
He knew what he needed, but where did they keep it? He rummaged through drawers, pushed past containers and tins. He reached beyond all the tubs, cans and packets at the front of the shelves and drawers, but what he desperately needed he couldn’t find. He felt his blood pressure rise and perspiration break out across his back and chest.
Don’t lose your focus now . . . grab everything else!
He plucked a thick-skinned lemon from the countertop basket by the herbs and nestled it against the flour. He collected cinnamon, a pot of honey. Then it was across to the fridge, the councillor in his wake. Out came a tub of mascarpone cheese and the last of the cherries they had collected on a dedicated trip two days earlier. He counted them, carefully checking them with his fidgety fingers.
More than a dozen. Plenty!
He closed the fridge and moved to the bottle store unit, up against the opposite wall. Sweet. What was sweet here? Moscato?
Ugh. Sickly . . . cloying. Loose on the palate.
Just as his nerve was about to shatter, he spotted a small bottle of vin santo.
Fuck yes! Sweet, yes. Smooth, yes. Complex.
Tucking the bottle of dessert wine under his arm, he plucked San Francesco’s picture from the wall once more – because why break with tradition now? Then his eyes scoured the countertop. Onto the tray he dropped the collection of bronze-tipped pasta cutters and wooden pasta stamps, having chosen the two he felt most suited the dish he had in mind – the decorative sun print and the blooming flower stamps. Time would tell which he would eventually use.
