The Tuscan Child(30)

“Not too much wine for me,” I said. “I am not used to drinking in the middle of the day.”

“But this is an ordinary wine. No strength at all. We give it to our children. Makes them strong. And if you wish, you can mix it with some water.” She handed me a carafe of water, and I poured in a little.

I was now told to help myself to the items on the board. I tried some of the salami and cheese, and the tomatoes were sweeter than any I had tasted before.

“What is the name of this cheese?” I asked. “It is very different from any cheese I have tasted.”

“Ah, that is because it is cheese from the sheep and not from the cow, such as you have in your country. It is the cheese that my husband and I used to make once. Pecorino, we call it. It is good, no? Sharp and full of flavour.”

“It is.” I nodded.

“Have more. And try this prosciutto.” She put more food on my plate, and while I ate, Paola questioned me. Where did I live? What about my parents?

I told her I lived in London and my parents were both dead. She nodded sadly. “It is tragic to lose a loved one. A wound one never recovers from, I fear. My own dear Gianfranco died last year.”

“I’m very sorry,” I said. “Was he ill?”

She shook her head angrily. “No. His truck went off the road and rolled over on the way to the market. It was bad weather. Much rain and wind. But Gianfranco was a good driver. Sometimes I wonder—”

“Mamma, you must not say these things,” Angelina interrupted. I looked at her enquiringly. “My mother thinks that maybe there are men who did not like my father. He was too honest. He would not pay protection money, and he would not sell his land.”

“It’s true. I do wonder, often. All I know is my husband was taken from me. Too young. Too young.”

“So now you have to run the farm on your own?” I asked.

“It was too much for a woman alone,” she said. “We used to have sheep and goats for the cheese, but they are gone now. I had to sell them, and you have their little house. My vineyard is rented out to others. I keep a few olive trees for the oil, and I grow vegetables in my garden, as you can see. I take them up to the market once a week, and I make preserves with the fruit. It is enough to get by.”

We ate for a while in silence. I felt the wine in my head, and the heat of the afternoon was making me sleepy. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a little sleep,” I said. “I was up all night on the train.”

“Of course.” Paola got up, too.

“And maybe later you could show me how to cook some of your recipes?” I said.

“It will be a pleasure. You like to cook?”

“I’d like to learn,” I said. “My mother was a good cook, but I have never learned to cook anything more than a fried egg.”

“She never taught you?” Paola asked.

“No. She died when I was eleven.”

Paola came up to me, her arms open, and took me into an embrace. I smelled garlic and sweat and a faint rosewater type of perfume, but the mixture was not unpleasant. “No young girl should have to grow up without a mother,” she said.

I fought back tears.

The combination of wine and tiredness meant that I slept for over an hour. I awoke with my head groggy and had to splash water on my face to make myself feel vaguely normal. When I came back to the kitchen, I saw Paola was working at the big table. She greeted me with a smile. “Ah, the little one who wants to cook. You came at the right moment. See, I am making pici. It is a pasta of this region, made with only flour and water. No eggs. Do you want to join me?”

“Oh yes, thank you. I’d love to,” I said. I washed my hands in the sink, then she showed me her process. “You see, we start with a mound of two types of flour. I like to use semolina as well as the flour we call tipo 00. Very fine, no? And then we make a little well in the middle, and we start to pour in the water, little by little, gently, and we mix. And we start to knead.”

I tried to follow along with my pile of flour. It wasn’t as easy as she made it look. Flour stuck to my fingers. It became a sticky mess.

“More flour, I think,” Paola said kindly, taking over until I had a smooth dough in front of me. “Now comes the real work. We knead and we knead. At least ten minutes.”

Again I followed along. It was an effort, but it felt good to have my hands working, to be creating something. I found myself relaxing—smiling. I looked around the kitchen as I worked. Bunches of herbs were drying in a corner, tied to a rack, and along one wall were large terra cotta jars full of olive oil and other things I couldn’t identify from where I was standing.

“Now we must let it rest,” Paola said. “Come, we will have a coffee and biscotti while we wait.”

She poured two cups of thick black coffee and pushed a plate of hard biscuits in front of me. I sat with her and nibbled at them. “Good, no?” she said. “And the biscotti are better when you dip them in the Vin Santo. I will show you later.”

“It’s very good just like this,” I said, although I wasn’t used to such strong coffee, which hit me with a jolt to the system.

“And now we finish the pici.” Paola got up and took the cloth from the top of our dough. “Let me show you how we roll it.”