Read Online Beautiful Things Never Last by Steph Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: Steph Campbell
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“Consider it dropped,” I say smartly.
Amalea isn’t ready to make good on her offer to teach me how to make the pastry, but she does let me sit in the kitchen and watch her make the labor intensive masterpiece.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I say. “How is your English so good?” I’m reaching for topics, but I really have been wondering. I assumed when I got here, I’d spend the entire month with everything lost in translation. Having Amalea as my host has really been a gift. “Do you have family in America or something?”
“No, no family. After…” Amalea tightens her apron and pauses, before rewording and starting again. “Several years ago, a couple from America moved to town. Carol was American, her husband , Benito was Italian. They came here to take care of his elderly parents, and Carol came to work in the store with me. She taught me to speak English.” I feel like there’s more to that story, but Amalea doesn’t seem keen on sharing today, so I let it go.
“Is that a family recipe?” I ask, spreading a thick layer of creamy lardo onto a slice of fresh, rustic bread. If it weren’t for Ben back home, I’m not sure I’d ever leave Spello. Or Amalea’s kitchen. I take a bite and it’s creamy in a way butter never could be and laced with rosemary and if I could marry a food this would be it.
“The sfogliatelle? S i . Passed down from my father’s side. The lardo, no. Luca from next door brought that back from Modena this morning.”
“It’s delicious,” I say, licking a glob off of my index finger.
“We will go one day. You and me. I know a man who makes il pesto modenese each morning. He will show you how.”
“That sounds incredible. Maybe someday.”
“You show more interest in the food than any of the other students I’ve had stay before.”
“Really?”
Amalea nods and I can’t help but feel a spark of pride ignite in myself for doing something right for a change.
“Did your mother cook with you a lot as a child? Is that why you have the appreciation of food?”
The flame has been blown out at the mention of my mom.
“ Not really.” I leave it vague, but Amalea looks up from the dough and stares at me, as if she’s waiting for me to elaborate. “My mom and I were never really close. She has… problems .”
“Ah,” Amalea says. “Are things better now, that you are grown?”
“Not exactly. I don’t live near her and my dad. And they are really involved with my youngest brother, so we don’t connect a lot. But she’s my mom…and I love her…and why am I talking about this when you threatened my life if I brought up Chef?”
Amalea cracks a small smile. “Fair enough.”
She rounds the counter where she’s been tirelessly rolling and stretching and layering the gorgeous dough, and reaches around me to open the freezer and place the plastic wrapped dough to chill. I have so much to learn from this woman.
“I wish I would’ve had a mom like you,” I let the words slip out before I have a chance to consider them. How they must sound rude and creepy and strange from someone Amalea barely knows. “I mean, I wish I would have grown up with her teaching me to cook and stuff.” I shrug, hoping I’ve managed to save things.
“ S ciocchezza , ” Amalea says. “I’m sure your mother taught you many
Amalea isn’t ready to make good on her offer to teach me how to make the pastry, but she does let me sit in the kitchen and watch her make the labor intensive masterpiece.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I say. “How is your English so good?” I’m reaching for topics, but I really have been wondering. I assumed when I got here, I’d spend the entire month with everything lost in translation. Having Amalea as my host has really been a gift. “Do you have family in America or something?”
“No, no family. After…” Amalea tightens her apron and pauses, before rewording and starting again. “Several years ago, a couple from America moved to town. Carol was American, her husband , Benito was Italian. They came here to take care of his elderly parents, and Carol came to work in the store with me. She taught me to speak English.” I feel like there’s more to that story, but Amalea doesn’t seem keen on sharing today, so I let it go.
“Is that a family recipe?” I ask, spreading a thick layer of creamy lardo onto a slice of fresh, rustic bread. If it weren’t for Ben back home, I’m not sure I’d ever leave Spello. Or Amalea’s kitchen. I take a bite and it’s creamy in a way butter never could be and laced with rosemary and if I could marry a food this would be it.
“The sfogliatelle? S i . Passed down from my father’s side. The lardo, no. Luca from next door brought that back from Modena this morning.”
“It’s delicious,” I say, licking a glob off of my index finger.
“We will go one day. You and me. I know a man who makes il pesto modenese each morning. He will show you how.”
“That sounds incredible. Maybe someday.”
“You show more interest in the food than any of the other students I’ve had stay before.”
“Really?”
Amalea nods and I can’t help but feel a spark of pride ignite in myself for doing something right for a change.
“Did your mother cook with you a lot as a child? Is that why you have the appreciation of food?”
The flame has been blown out at the mention of my mom.
“ Not really.” I leave it vague, but Amalea looks up from the dough and stares at me, as if she’s waiting for me to elaborate. “My mom and I were never really close. She has… problems .”
“Ah,” Amalea says. “Are things better now, that you are grown?”
“Not exactly. I don’t live near her and my dad. And they are really involved with my youngest brother, so we don’t connect a lot. But she’s my mom…and I love her…and why am I talking about this when you threatened my life if I brought up Chef?”
Amalea cracks a small smile. “Fair enough.”
She rounds the counter where she’s been tirelessly rolling and stretching and layering the gorgeous dough, and reaches around me to open the freezer and place the plastic wrapped dough to chill. I have so much to learn from this woman.
“I wish I would’ve had a mom like you,” I let the words slip out before I have a chance to consider them. How they must sound rude and creepy and strange from someone Amalea barely knows. “I mean, I wish I would have grown up with her teaching me to cook and stuff.” I shrug, hoping I’ve managed to save things.
“ S ciocchezza , ” Amalea says. “I’m sure your mother taught you many
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