forcing it lower, into her belly. She blew it out. One more slow breath.
She could do this. One plate at a time, right?
Sean was in his room, so she could ignore him for the moment. The rest of her life could wait too. That left her in the kitchen, alone, not a bad place to be at all. Olivia looked around.
The trestle table at which she sat was the focal point of the upper level. A wine bar sat against the near wall with bottles racked up to the ceiling. A narrow table-like ledge circled the room. There were high stools placed at intervals to create intimate seating arrangements. The top level gave the effect of a tiny restaurant dining room with a roomy chef’s table in the center.
Her bird’s-eye view of the empty lower level showed a more traditional production kitchen with stainless steel tables, another small dish room, and refrigerators, ovens, and stoves on both ends of the cooking space. She could easily picture smooth workflow from refrigerator to workstation, from workstation to table, from table to dish room.
The outer wall of the lower kitchen was made entirely of windows, filling the room with natural light. The windows, combined with the stainless steel tables, coolers and ovens gave the kitchen a sophisticated feel while the exquisite copper pots and sauté pans hanging above the stoves and the warm colors on the walls gave the room welcoming charm. The kitchen had been painted in shades of yellow that made her think of wheat waving in the wind. The burgundy and umber accents were reminiscent of red wine and rich, dark soil. The split-level teaching kitchen was beautiful as well as functional, with every piece of equipment placed for maximum efficiency. There was no arguing with the fact that her mother was a genius.
She heard a door slam and a voice getting rapidly louder. She wiped her fingers under her eyes, smoothed her ponytail, and stood, ready to face whoever was approaching. The upper-level door swung open, crashing into the wall, and Alessandro stormed into the kitchen, snarling into his cell phone. When he saw her, he stopped.
She watched cautiously as Alessandro made a visible effort to control himself. He spoke so quickly she could only understand about every other word of the Italian he spoke as he ended the call.
He dropped the phone in his pocket. “ Ciao , Olivia. Are you looking for your mother?”
She offered him a brief smile. “I’m looking for someone to tell me what I can do to help with dinner,” she explained.
“Is that so?” His eyebrows arched.
“I can cook,” she assured him, wincing as her defensive tone brought a patronizing smile to his face.
“Of course you can, but everything is already prepared for dinner tonight…unless you’d like to chop some herbs?” he asked, in the manner of someone appeasing a child.
“Sure.” She felt the smile congeal on her face.
He handed her a stainless steel bowl from the dish room. “The garden is along the side of the villa. We need parsley, rosemary, and basil. Do you know them?”
She blinked, thinking she had misunderstood his accented English, then realized he had indeed just asked her if she could identify parsley. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out.” She narrowed her eyes. There was always something to be done in the kitchen. Always. Why was he wasting her time picking herbs?
“Chef Alessandro?” she called as he strode down the shallow stairs and headed for the stoves. He turned his head and raised an eyebrow. “What’s for dinner?” she asked.
“Some simple vegetables, cheeses and meats for antipasti, gnocchi, osso buco, and lavender gelato for dolci .”
“Can I assume we’ll have a gremolata with the osso buco?”
He swung around to face her fully. “Naturally.”
“Is it done?”
“Of course.”
“Just checking,” she said, giving him a sunny smile as she headed out the door to pick herbs she now knew he didn’t even need. Well, at least it was work she could do well. She snorted
She could do this. One plate at a time, right?
Sean was in his room, so she could ignore him for the moment. The rest of her life could wait too. That left her in the kitchen, alone, not a bad place to be at all. Olivia looked around.
The trestle table at which she sat was the focal point of the upper level. A wine bar sat against the near wall with bottles racked up to the ceiling. A narrow table-like ledge circled the room. There were high stools placed at intervals to create intimate seating arrangements. The top level gave the effect of a tiny restaurant dining room with a roomy chef’s table in the center.
Her bird’s-eye view of the empty lower level showed a more traditional production kitchen with stainless steel tables, another small dish room, and refrigerators, ovens, and stoves on both ends of the cooking space. She could easily picture smooth workflow from refrigerator to workstation, from workstation to table, from table to dish room.
The outer wall of the lower kitchen was made entirely of windows, filling the room with natural light. The windows, combined with the stainless steel tables, coolers and ovens gave the kitchen a sophisticated feel while the exquisite copper pots and sauté pans hanging above the stoves and the warm colors on the walls gave the room welcoming charm. The kitchen had been painted in shades of yellow that made her think of wheat waving in the wind. The burgundy and umber accents were reminiscent of red wine and rich, dark soil. The split-level teaching kitchen was beautiful as well as functional, with every piece of equipment placed for maximum efficiency. There was no arguing with the fact that her mother was a genius.
She heard a door slam and a voice getting rapidly louder. She wiped her fingers under her eyes, smoothed her ponytail, and stood, ready to face whoever was approaching. The upper-level door swung open, crashing into the wall, and Alessandro stormed into the kitchen, snarling into his cell phone. When he saw her, he stopped.
She watched cautiously as Alessandro made a visible effort to control himself. He spoke so quickly she could only understand about every other word of the Italian he spoke as he ended the call.
He dropped the phone in his pocket. “ Ciao , Olivia. Are you looking for your mother?”
She offered him a brief smile. “I’m looking for someone to tell me what I can do to help with dinner,” she explained.
“Is that so?” His eyebrows arched.
“I can cook,” she assured him, wincing as her defensive tone brought a patronizing smile to his face.
“Of course you can, but everything is already prepared for dinner tonight…unless you’d like to chop some herbs?” he asked, in the manner of someone appeasing a child.
“Sure.” She felt the smile congeal on her face.
He handed her a stainless steel bowl from the dish room. “The garden is along the side of the villa. We need parsley, rosemary, and basil. Do you know them?”
She blinked, thinking she had misunderstood his accented English, then realized he had indeed just asked her if she could identify parsley. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out.” She narrowed her eyes. There was always something to be done in the kitchen. Always. Why was he wasting her time picking herbs?
“Chef Alessandro?” she called as he strode down the shallow stairs and headed for the stoves. He turned his head and raised an eyebrow. “What’s for dinner?” she asked.
“Some simple vegetables, cheeses and meats for antipasti, gnocchi, osso buco, and lavender gelato for dolci .”
“Can I assume we’ll have a gremolata with the osso buco?”
He swung around to face her fully. “Naturally.”
“Is it done?”
“Of course.”
“Just checking,” she said, giving him a sunny smile as she headed out the door to pick herbs she now knew he didn’t even need. Well, at least it was work she could do well. She snorted
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