My mother-in-law, Augusta, wasn’t a cook and she knew it; it wasn’t her interest in life. Her dinner repertoire was limited: Swanson’s, Mama Celeste, and Mrs. Paul. She had two special occasion meals that had been perfected: a standing rib roast for Christmas and a no frills turkey for Thanksgiving. Each year, though, her gravy proved a challenge. Gravy was her weak spot.
Last Thanksgiving, Livio Mele was a guest she did not invite. He was a tag along friend of her son, John, who arrived with his own bag of groceries. From the West Side of Manhattan, Livio loved to cook though he was best at cooking up stories. They were funny, Fellini-like stories of women in red hats and men in dark suits who met desperate and sweaty in doorways off the canals of Venice with one thing on their minds and it wasn’t Melanzane.
He was a toucher. A middle-aged toucher who might be considered a dirty old man depending on who was doing the considering. He would brush warm, fat fingertips on backs of arms, smalls of backs, inside wrists and across a shoulder.
Tall and hearty, he was a spicy penne arrabiata to Augusta’s straightforward Uncle Ben’s.
Uninvited, Livio took control of my mother-in-laws kitchen like a conductor. He raised his spoon to cook a symphony and she felt his assessment by the way he undressed her kitchen with his cool gaze. He plucked her from the room like an unwanted gray hair.
Once alone, he put on an apron to sliver baby artichokes and shave asagio cheese. He zested fresh lemons, snapped asparagus and quartered chestnuts. He uncorked an expensive Pouilly Fuisse he brought from the city, to take a breath, he said.
He cursed the need for a sharper knife, a competent cutting board and lamented the lack of a standing asparagus steamer. He demanded better olive oil and required fresh pepper.
Augusta sat in her living room. With one long leg crossing the other, her foot jiggled to keep her anger in check. Her daughter tried to distract her with small talk while Livio hummed Nessun Dorma as he appropriated her Thanksgiving meal.
“I don’t understand why people like artichokes. You have to work so hard, for what?”she asked.
Her best friend, Lulu handed her an apertif. “I don’t want a cocktail. I want my kitchen back,” she said. Her grandson suggested she take advantage of the help and relax. This made her foot jiggle more.
She lit a cigarette to give her the strength to reclaim her rightful place. After all, she had planned green beans—which would be just fine—as well as mashed potatoes, thank you very much. Besides, she had to make her gravy. Gravy made her nervous since it always bubbled lumpy.
Livio was ordered out of the kitchen. He offered to help but Augusta glared at him. To Livio, a glare could mean a flirtation so he smiled a large, toothy smile.
When Augusta asked her son to carve the turkey, Livio stepped in. She reluctantly agreed as long as he didn’t complain about her knives. He carved the bird like a surgeon and when he was done, Augusta placed her Thanksgiving meal on fine china platters and in gold rimmed serving dishes that she delivered to the dining room—back and forth—like a relay race. She fussed that everyone take a seat quickly, while the food was still hot.
Livio poured the Pouilly Fuisse while Augusta offered sparkling water to make a point. The gravy offered lumps of corn starch which no one said a word about and the mashed potatoes were dry. The artichokes were a welcome change and the asparagus was just right.
As was their tradition, Augusta, asked everyone around the table to share one thing they were thankful for. John was grateful for his new raise. Her grandson Rick was grateful for his last year of college. Her daughter, Melanie was grateful for her children (who were with their father this holiday), Lulu was grateful for her social security checks while the government still had money. Augusta was grateful for having everyone to dinner at her house. Livio was grateful for his new Bruno Magli shoes which he got at cost.
