fool yourself, you have to go big.
I was wrong about all of it.
Thursday
The next day, Miracolo became like a Disney cartoon where mice or candlesticks are furiously furnishing a banquet, bearing impossible things on their heads, and singing their little animated hearts out. All of our suppliers showed up at once—the linens, the uniforms, the wholesalers. I actually wrung my hands when I stood at our propped-open front door and heard the griping car horns trying to get around the fleet of double-parked delivery trucks.
Paulette showed up early to play quartermaster and direct the action, freeing me up to figure out the specials. To keep the mayhem to a minimum, I decided to go with two easy but elegant vegetable pasta dishes, pansotti and piccage, and call it Vegetarian Night. As I wrote them up on the specials board, I could already hear Maria Pia’s complaints. But I was hoping she was so distracted by Arlen/Maximiliano’s murder that she would just let me be.
At 2:53 p.m., Choo Choo and Paulette were laying out the table linens.
Landon—who found a backup mortar and pestle—was making pesto for my piccage and happily discussing the career of Liza Minnelli with Jonathan.
Alma and Vera were filling vases. Alma was pouring the water and Vera was standing nearby with towels to mop up the spillage. She shot me a long-suffering look, a cross between What’s with her? and Patience, someday we’ll be all be clumsy dinosaurs, too.
Kayla, dressed in layers of pastel gauze, was singing a Nora Jones medley and setting out greens and potatoes on the counter.
And then the double doors to the kitchen slammed open. “So now we’re asking the altar boys to perform the Mass?”
Jonathan stepped closer to Landon, who didn’t mind in the least.
I turned, brushing whole wheat flour from my hands. “What are you talking about, Nonna?” said I innocently.
“ Vegetarian Night at Miracolo? Really, Eve?” Maria Pia was wearing a Saks version of widow’s weeds, a black drop-waist, high-collar dress.
“Yes, and it’s going to be great.”
Her nostrils flared at me. “You know how I feel about vegetables.”
You’d think she was accusing me of selling state secrets and shoving compromising photos under my nose.
So I recited the Maria Pia catechism. “Fine in their place, but handmaidens to the beef and fish and chicken.”
“Exactly,” she tipped her head in semiapproval. “So it’s not too late—”
But it was. And as much as I loved her, it wasn’t fine to be that unbending on somebody else’s watch. “Nonna, if your boyfriend hadn’t gotten himself killed here, maybe I would have had time to do something more ambitious.”
She gasped. Outside the double doors I could see Paulette, Alma, Vera, and Choo Choo crammed together, watching. “That’s a terrible—”
I plowed on. “But he did, so guess what? Today the altar boys are performing the Mass.”
It was a standoff, the two of us staring each other down, our arms crossed. Then she suddenly sank into a fine old mope. “Well, at least it isn’t … cannoli.” She could hardly form the hated word.
With that, Choo Choo and the others slid aside and let her back into the dining room. When she was gone, complaining loudly about greens and calling me her least favorite granddaughter—brava, Little Serena, you’re suddenly back in the mix—I sank against the prep table, fanning myself with my chef’s hat.
Landon dashed over to me and wrapped me in a hug. “You prevailed,” he said, eyes filled with wonder.
“Believe me,” I said to him, “I’ll pay for it.”
He waved it away. “She’ll forget all about it.” I think he was just basking in the afterglow of shielding Jonathan from the Dragon of Market Square.
When the noise level rose out in the dining room, I peeked through the round windows. Mrs. Crawford had arrived, resplendent in a black-and-teal cocktail dress, black fishnet stockings and snood over her wiry brown hair, the
I was wrong about all of it.
Thursday
The next day, Miracolo became like a Disney cartoon where mice or candlesticks are furiously furnishing a banquet, bearing impossible things on their heads, and singing their little animated hearts out. All of our suppliers showed up at once—the linens, the uniforms, the wholesalers. I actually wrung my hands when I stood at our propped-open front door and heard the griping car horns trying to get around the fleet of double-parked delivery trucks.
Paulette showed up early to play quartermaster and direct the action, freeing me up to figure out the specials. To keep the mayhem to a minimum, I decided to go with two easy but elegant vegetable pasta dishes, pansotti and piccage, and call it Vegetarian Night. As I wrote them up on the specials board, I could already hear Maria Pia’s complaints. But I was hoping she was so distracted by Arlen/Maximiliano’s murder that she would just let me be.
At 2:53 p.m., Choo Choo and Paulette were laying out the table linens.
Landon—who found a backup mortar and pestle—was making pesto for my piccage and happily discussing the career of Liza Minnelli with Jonathan.
Alma and Vera were filling vases. Alma was pouring the water and Vera was standing nearby with towels to mop up the spillage. She shot me a long-suffering look, a cross between What’s with her? and Patience, someday we’ll be all be clumsy dinosaurs, too.
Kayla, dressed in layers of pastel gauze, was singing a Nora Jones medley and setting out greens and potatoes on the counter.
And then the double doors to the kitchen slammed open. “So now we’re asking the altar boys to perform the Mass?”
Jonathan stepped closer to Landon, who didn’t mind in the least.
I turned, brushing whole wheat flour from my hands. “What are you talking about, Nonna?” said I innocently.
“ Vegetarian Night at Miracolo? Really, Eve?” Maria Pia was wearing a Saks version of widow’s weeds, a black drop-waist, high-collar dress.
“Yes, and it’s going to be great.”
Her nostrils flared at me. “You know how I feel about vegetables.”
You’d think she was accusing me of selling state secrets and shoving compromising photos under my nose.
So I recited the Maria Pia catechism. “Fine in their place, but handmaidens to the beef and fish and chicken.”
“Exactly,” she tipped her head in semiapproval. “So it’s not too late—”
But it was. And as much as I loved her, it wasn’t fine to be that unbending on somebody else’s watch. “Nonna, if your boyfriend hadn’t gotten himself killed here, maybe I would have had time to do something more ambitious.”
She gasped. Outside the double doors I could see Paulette, Alma, Vera, and Choo Choo crammed together, watching. “That’s a terrible—”
I plowed on. “But he did, so guess what? Today the altar boys are performing the Mass.”
It was a standoff, the two of us staring each other down, our arms crossed. Then she suddenly sank into a fine old mope. “Well, at least it isn’t … cannoli.” She could hardly form the hated word.
With that, Choo Choo and the others slid aside and let her back into the dining room. When she was gone, complaining loudly about greens and calling me her least favorite granddaughter—brava, Little Serena, you’re suddenly back in the mix—I sank against the prep table, fanning myself with my chef’s hat.
Landon dashed over to me and wrapped me in a hug. “You prevailed,” he said, eyes filled with wonder.
“Believe me,” I said to him, “I’ll pay for it.”
He waved it away. “She’ll forget all about it.” I think he was just basking in the afterglow of shielding Jonathan from the Dragon of Market Square.
When the noise level rose out in the dining room, I peeked through the round windows. Mrs. Crawford had arrived, resplendent in a black-and-teal cocktail dress, black fishnet stockings and snood over her wiry brown hair, the
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