Margherita's Notebook by Elisabetta Flumeri, Gabriella Giacometti Page A
Authors: Elisabetta Flumeri, Gabriella Giacometti
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everything, stirring, as she tried to figure out what it was that she didnât like about the kitchen. As Margherita checked to see if the meat was done, she ground some black pepper over it.
Thatâs whatâs wrong . . . Itâs all so sterile, no one ever really cooks here.
She tasted the ragout and screwed up her nose. She added salt and another pinch of pepper.
Now she was satisfied with her creation. She turned down the heat and went back to the menu. She needed to work on the tortellini. At that moment her cell phone buzzed, informing her of an incoming text message.
With annoyance, Margherita read FRANCESCO on the screen again. She sighed and read the message: âWhy wonât you talk to me? I miss you, I miss you so much,â followed by a sad face. Irritated, she deleted it. Francesco was still playing the victim . . . as if he hadnât been the one to start everything! Sheâd had enough of his childish ways.
Just then, Carla peered into the kitchen. Margherita brushed aside her thoughts about the person whom she now considered to be her ex-husband and, trying to ignore the blondeâs inquisitive gaze, went back to her pots and pans.Carla watched every move she made: despite her young age, she had to admit the cook seemed to know what she was doing. The situation looked like it was under control.
âIâm going out,â she told Margherita. âSee you in about an hour.â Maybe even two, Carla thought to herself, determined to get her hair done.
Alone at last, Margherita felt freer. She put the heavy cream and a sprig of sage into a saucepan and let it simmer slowly, arranged the pork chops on a large work surface, and used a sharp knife to slice them deeply enough to turn them into pockets. With the moves of a true master, she diced the bacon, pitted the prunes, chopped the parsley, and when she had achieved a fragrant mixture, she stuffed the pork chops. She followed the rhythm of the music that only she could hear, a symphony of aromas, bouquets, and colors, moving quickly from one ingredient to the next, captivated by the dance of flavors that tasted of her childhood, of sweet memories that she had shared with her mother. Tortellini en croûte was one of her motherâs signature dishes. Margherita couldnât have been more than eight years old when Erica taught her to make this dish. Her mother had placed a small table next to the counter where she cooked and, after giving her the rolled-out dough, the stamp, and the filling, sheâd taught her what to do: âA teaspoon of meat in the middle, fold the crescent shapes, and use the tips of your fingers to seal the edges all around . . .â And, as they made them together, she told Margherita stories about the family, about her grandmother and her great-great-grandmother.
Margherita was so immersed in her thoughts that she hadnât heard the door open, nor did she realize there wassomeone behind her. She was completely focused on what she was doing, chanting a nursery rhyme that she and Erica used to recite.
At first, Nicola didnât recognize her. Perhaps because he had expected to see a man, perhaps because this young woman who was humming, bent over the counter, and unaware of his presence moved with such harmony that he couldnât help being charmed by her.
Motionless, he watched her for a few seconds.
Then Margherita turned around and they were face-to-face.
She jumped back in fright. In disbelief, she found herself staring into the dark chocolate eyes of the hotshot from the squid incident, that great consumer of frozen foods. Damn, he was good-looking, maybe even more than last time, with an almost childlike look of amazement on his face.
Nicola was equally taken aback.
It was the crazy blonde from the market! How had she ended up in his kitchen? Who on earth had let her in? For a second he was speechless, but he quickly regained his
Thatâs whatâs wrong . . . Itâs all so sterile, no one ever really cooks here.
She tasted the ragout and screwed up her nose. She added salt and another pinch of pepper.
Now she was satisfied with her creation. She turned down the heat and went back to the menu. She needed to work on the tortellini. At that moment her cell phone buzzed, informing her of an incoming text message.
With annoyance, Margherita read FRANCESCO on the screen again. She sighed and read the message: âWhy wonât you talk to me? I miss you, I miss you so much,â followed by a sad face. Irritated, she deleted it. Francesco was still playing the victim . . . as if he hadnât been the one to start everything! Sheâd had enough of his childish ways.
Just then, Carla peered into the kitchen. Margherita brushed aside her thoughts about the person whom she now considered to be her ex-husband and, trying to ignore the blondeâs inquisitive gaze, went back to her pots and pans.Carla watched every move she made: despite her young age, she had to admit the cook seemed to know what she was doing. The situation looked like it was under control.
âIâm going out,â she told Margherita. âSee you in about an hour.â Maybe even two, Carla thought to herself, determined to get her hair done.
Alone at last, Margherita felt freer. She put the heavy cream and a sprig of sage into a saucepan and let it simmer slowly, arranged the pork chops on a large work surface, and used a sharp knife to slice them deeply enough to turn them into pockets. With the moves of a true master, she diced the bacon, pitted the prunes, chopped the parsley, and when she had achieved a fragrant mixture, she stuffed the pork chops. She followed the rhythm of the music that only she could hear, a symphony of aromas, bouquets, and colors, moving quickly from one ingredient to the next, captivated by the dance of flavors that tasted of her childhood, of sweet memories that she had shared with her mother. Tortellini en croûte was one of her motherâs signature dishes. Margherita couldnât have been more than eight years old when Erica taught her to make this dish. Her mother had placed a small table next to the counter where she cooked and, after giving her the rolled-out dough, the stamp, and the filling, sheâd taught her what to do: âA teaspoon of meat in the middle, fold the crescent shapes, and use the tips of your fingers to seal the edges all around . . .â And, as they made them together, she told Margherita stories about the family, about her grandmother and her great-great-grandmother.
Margherita was so immersed in her thoughts that she hadnât heard the door open, nor did she realize there wassomeone behind her. She was completely focused on what she was doing, chanting a nursery rhyme that she and Erica used to recite.
At first, Nicola didnât recognize her. Perhaps because he had expected to see a man, perhaps because this young woman who was humming, bent over the counter, and unaware of his presence moved with such harmony that he couldnât help being charmed by her.
Motionless, he watched her for a few seconds.
Then Margherita turned around and they were face-to-face.
She jumped back in fright. In disbelief, she found herself staring into the dark chocolate eyes of the hotshot from the squid incident, that great consumer of frozen foods. Damn, he was good-looking, maybe even more than last time, with an almost childlike look of amazement on his face.
Nicola was equally taken aback.
It was the crazy blonde from the market! How had she ended up in his kitchen? Who on earth had let her in? For a second he was speechless, but he quickly regained his
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