‘Come on, Francesco,’ he murmured to their inanimate protector. ‘Where’s the beetroot powder?’ He made for the collection of small clay canisters on the wheeled trolley. One by one he turned their labels outwards. Salts. Spices. Dyes. Dried herbs. And . . .
‘Barbabietola!’ He removed the stopper, tilted the canister so that some of the pink-burgundy powder tipped into his palm. ‘This is brilliant,’ he called to his councillor, who nodded excitedly, but probably had no idea what Alessio meant. The canister hit the tray, and Alessio reached for an empty jar he found sitting by the sink. He gave it a rinse, then said, ‘Outside! Let’s go.’
* * *
At the very bottom of the garden, Alessio stooped low to sift through the edible flowers Francesca grew in the cooler pockets of the vegetable patch.
He picked only the pink-coloured violets with white dotted hearts, collecting five or six. He dropped them into the empty jar, then picked one extra purple one. He walked over to the councillor and pushed the flower’s stem into the man’s shirt pocket, leaving the delicate petaled bloom to playfully poke out. ‘Enjoy, my friend. Just for you!’ Alessio gave his arm a reassuring pat before adding, ‘I’m done. Finito. I’ve got a competition to win!’ And with that, the two bolted back to the piazza with their goodies.
* * *
Alessio’s hands moved with confident dexterity. The fidgeting and worried haste of the first round had given way to a determined resolve, and it resonated through his fingers as they made a well in the flour on the board. He added one teaspoon of beetroot powder to a half-glass of water, stirring it to the brightest shade of pink.
He poured the tinted water into the well and began to slowly mix in the flour using just a finger. The pink slowly muted to a pastel shade as the flour diluted its colour, and by the time it had all been combined – with the addition of some extra water to loosen the mixture – l’impasto, the dough, was a delicate, feminine pink. It had warm undertones of red, mimicking the natural shade of Francesca’s lips.
He caught himself smiling as his hands continued to knead the dough on his board. It was going to be just perfect, because he had the most divinely sweet inspiration.
Setting the smooth-skinned dough aside to rest, his attention turned to what would be the filling. He quickly set to work chopping and mincing the cherries, macerating them in a teaspoon of caster sugar and a splash of the vin santo.
He managed a moment to steal a quick glance over the top of his station at Sebastiano and Elio, both hard at work, and both with their hands on the local honey and cinnamon.
No. Step away. They can have them, be the point of difference.
He pushed his pot of honey and little jar of cinnamon aside, and nodded reassuringly to himself.
Into the cherry mince he added a heaped tablespoon of lusciously thick mascarpone, giving the mixture a gentle stir. The red warmth of the cherries was subdued by the cream’s milky magic, and the pink soon matched that of the pasta dough. He dipped the tip of his little finger into the filling and tasted it.
Sweet, but not overwhelming.
The cherry is there.
There’s the kick of the vin santo.
Just the right balance of tang from the mascarpone.
Just needs . . .
He reached for the lemon, sliced it with one deft chop and dribbled in some of the juice. He stirred and checked once again.
Got it.
But don’t get cocky.
‘Trenta minuti! You have half an hour!’ Felice announced into the microphone, and Alessio sensed both his competitors pick up speed at their stations. But he felt none of the panic.
Ok, let’s sort this pasta, then . . .
He took the elastic ball of dough into his hands and gave it a gentle squeeze, watching as the pasta sprang back to fill the imprint of his fingers. He pulled at it, stretching it into a flattened oblong, ready for its first pass through the machine.
Checking the machine was securely fastened to the bench, he adjusted the width settings and fixed the handle in place. Then, he began. From the thickest to the second-thinnest, he cranked and wound the sheets up, over and through, time after time. With each pass the sheets grew silkier, smoother. The beetroot stain remained steadfast, gloriously colouring the sheet. It was joyful and striking. Exactly what he needed.
On his final pass, Alessio pulled the sheet from the machine and lay it flat on his floured bench. He assessed both of the wooden stamps he had brought from the kitchen, and the one that spoke to him, impressing upon his heart all the wonder and desire she conjured in him, was the flower design.
Un fiore for Francesca Fiore.
Alessio pressed the stamp into one end of the length of pasta, checking for the quality of the imprint. It left an intricately petaled flower in bloom. Alessio was delighted, but would need to press harder for a more defined final result, as cooking the pasta would soften that sharp clarity as it swelled.
And so, he pressed and printed across the sheet until he was happy with the floral artistry. Taking a wavy bronze-tipped cutter he prepared two matching lengths of pasta that would form the top and bottom of the large solitary raviolo. Four by four inches would be enough for one truly decadent mouthful of Impastino’s sweetest treasure.
