Page 25 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

We measured the flour and poured it directly onto the countertop.

Then we made a little nest in the center, where the eggs were added.

Amelia insisted all we needed was a fork and a bit of wrist action to get the eggs, dash of olive oil, and flour blended perfectly.

She skillfully showed us her technique. Hers came together swiftly, looking tidy.

I was the slow bunny and managed to make quite a mess.

Claire became an intense student. Her bangs were clipped back, so I could see her concentrated expression clearly.

She was loving every snippet of advice and had lots of questions and comments about different types of flour and the color of the yolks in the best organic, free-range eggs.

I loved her passion and was learning fascinating details about cooking just watching and listening to the two of them.

I liked the way the dough was rolled out with a long roller into a smooth layer that was then folded and neatly cut.

Amelia showed us how to gather a sparse amount of noodles into what looked like a small ball of thick twine.

She lined up the pasta clusters on a wooden sideboard for them to dry in the fresh air.

“When we place them in the boiling water later, they will uncurl,” Claire explained to me.

Next, we made tagliatelle from the same ingredients but rolled a bit thinner and cut into narrower strips. We laid the strips on several large baking sheets dusted with flour.

“This is another way to let the pasta rest,” Amelia said. “This way can sometimes be faster. My nonna always made the clusters with pappardelle, and she always laid out the tagliatelle like this. I have no idea why it makes a difference, but now you know both ways.”

I started dreaming of fettuccine Alfredo after we laid out the tagliatelle, and Amelia said we would make a white cream sauce later.

“First, we make pesto,” she said.

This process fascinated me. We were given a mortar and pestle that looked like they had first been used during Michelangelo’s time.

I loved the way the smooth handle of the pestle felt in my hand as we crushed four garlic cloves and a pinch of salt until it looked like paste.

Next came the basil, added bit by bit and pounded until the leaves blended into the garlic paste.

The fragrance was divine.

“I only use sweet Genovese basil,” Amelia said. “Fresh. Always fresh. Many people don’t know this, but you should never cook pesto. It changes the structure and the taste. Make it fresh and enjoy it on almost anything.”

“I have a question for the two of you cooks,” I said. “How do you manage to wait until the end when you’ve finished making whatever you’re making? My mouth is watering.”

Amelia smiled. “The fragrance fuels the passion. For me, it’s like a runner focused on the finish line. You must keep going to experience the exhilaration of the victory, when you sit around the table and enjoy the food together.”

“I like the process,” Claire said. “I love the colors and textures and—”

“The art of the food,” I inserted.

“Yes, that’s it. The art of the finished dish,” Claire said. “But like you, Amelia, I like the feeling when I see others enjoy something I made.”

“Then it’s gone,” Amelia said. “And we need to create something new the next day. Or re-create something we loved and see if we can get it just right once again.”

I almost confessed that I had never felt that way about preparing meals. But what a buzzkill it would be if I declared I didn’t enjoy the challenge of creating art with vegetables, nor did I ever look forward to preparing even a simple meal.

I did, however, understand the passion Amelia referred to.

That fire-in-the-belly feeling came to me in other ways, gardening being one of them.

I loved to plant seeds and watch them grow and turn into food.

I left it up to Claire and half a dozen other friends and neighbors to figure out what to do when I had an abundance of eggplant or tomatoes.

My joy was in tending the seedlings as they reached their full potential.

Amelia checked my mortar and said my basil was well mixed into the garlic.

It had taken more than five minutes of dedicated labor, and my hand felt it.

Amelia had measured out pine nuts into white ramekins, and bit by bit I added and smashed the pine nuts with a more intentional pounding method than used to decimate the garlic and fresh basil.

“I sometimes add roasted walnuts,” Amelia said. “It’s too early for fresh walnuts, so we aren’t using them today. You’ll have to come back in the fall.”

“Okay,” Claire said without hesitation.

Amelia grinned. “You will love my castagnaccio. My nonna’s recipe is the best in the whole region. It’s made from chestnut flour and is a favorite dessert around here every fall. The mushrooms are best then too. Please come back. We can go truffle hunting with Tosca and her husband.”

I knew Claire wouldn’t need to be invited twice.

She was faster than I was with the pine nuts and began to add finely grated Parmesan cheese to her pesto in several installments, stirring, pounding, adding more, and repeating the process.

She kept at it for the next five minutes.

I was weary after two minutes and asked if mine had passed the test yet.

“No tests here,” Amelia said. “It’s your creation. How do you like your pesto?”

I looked at the lumps and went back to work until I was happy with how it appeared. At last, I added the final ingredient. Yes, extra virgin olive oil.

“This is going to be gone in a flash.” I stared at the small harvest of pesto in my mortar. I reached for one of the testing spoons and dipped in for a taste. My eyes opened wide. “Oh, wow. That is delicious. I always liked pesto, but this is really good.”

Claire tried hers and agreed. “So good. What are we going to put this on?”

“I have some bread ready for us,” Amelia said. “I’ll show you the best crostini.”

As Amelia and Claire delighted in creating an assortment of bite-size appetizers that were now becoming familiar, I helped myself to a bottle of acqua minerale and sat for a bit in the corner chair. I enjoyed watching the process more than I liked being one of the creators.

That is, until the crostini assembly was complete and Amelia said we would now make the white sauce for our pasta. I was ready to make the fettuccine magic happen.

We placed local organic butter and heavy cream into our pans on low heat and stirred with a wooden spoon for a few minutes until the combination blended nicely and was barely at a simmer. An assortment of spices was lined up in front of us in small glass bowls.

“Select what you love.” Amelia pointed to each bowl. “Salt, pepper, garlic, basil, oregano, rosemary, thyme, and marjoram. And, of course”—she placed the bottle of extra virgin olive oil closer to us—“some cooks, like my nonna, would add a drop of olive oil at this stage.”

“Why are we not surprised?” Claire asked with a chuckle.

Aside from salt and a little garlic, I had no idea what other spices would make my Alfredo sauce taste as delicious as I hoped it would.

I copied Claire. She fearlessly went for the rosemary first. An interesting choice.

Oregano made sense to me, as well as the basil.

But I knew nothing about thyme and marjoram.

Claire wasn’t afraid of them. She also added a good twist of the pepper mill.

I stopped after the basil and began to do as Amelia was demonstrating, using a whisk to mix everything together nicely.

It turned out that the whisk was also the best way to blend in the Parmesan cheese.

Amelia gave Claire her large block of Parmesan cheese and a grater that was unlike any I had ever seen. Claire efficiently added an unmeasured amount of cheese, whisked away, and smiled at the consistency before Amelia had a chance to praise her.

I was a little less skillful with the cheese grater and asked twice if I should add more. Amelia gave a shrug as if it was up to me. My art. My creation. Rely on my passion.

I added a little more as Amelia continued to explain to Claire how the Parmesan cheese had to be Parmigiano-Reggiano, and according to law in both the EU and US, it could only be produced in certain historical regions of Italy, such as Parma, Reggio, and Bologna.

“It can be expensive,” Amelia said, “because it’s true Parmesan. Try this sometime on roasted brussels sprouts. You will be amazed.”

I secretly hoped brussels sprouts weren’t next on the menu.