Page 38 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)
L’unione fa la forza.
Unity makes strength.
Italian saying
The rest of the morning and into the afternoon, Claire and I were in our happy places, doing exactly what each of us thought was the best way to spend a vacation.
She stood in the kitchen for hours next to Amelia, cooking, learning, taste-testing, and talking while I worked in the garden, swam in the gloriously comfortable pool, read, and took a napini.
I was glad I hadn’t tried to talk Claire into a second day in Florence. This was exactly what my heart, mind, and soul needed.
Rosie brought me a bowl of the revered tortelloni when the sun was high above. I consumed it with relish. She helped me open one of the umbrellas and let me know that the cookie baking would commence at three o’clock.
At three o’clock exactly, I was showered, dressed, and ready to go. As I entered the kitchen, the lingering fragrances from the previous cooking session rushed to greet me. I put on my apron and said many kind words of praise for the tortelloni.
“I usually only make it in the fall because I can get fresh mushrooms and pumpkins,” Amelia said. “Those fillers make the best tortelloni, I think. What we made today was common. Spinach and ricotta.”
“With Parmesan cheese,” Claire added.
I washed my hands at the kitchen sink. “My taste buds say there was nothing common about your tortelloni. I loved it.”
“Wait until you see what we’re having for dinner,” Rosie chirped. “Gio is going to cook on his outdoor stove. You will love it. I can’t wait.”
Amelia brought our focus back to everything she had laid out for us on the counter. She was in her teaching mode and reminded me of the English literature teacher I had in high school who introduced me to Jane Austen. She ranked right up there with Amelia in exuding passion for her art.
My teacher used to say that sometimes you have to watch someone do what they love to understand the art form.
To demonstrate her theory, she read to us for the last ten minutes of every class and left us hanging when the bell rang.
I wasn’t the only one who went to the library on a Friday after class so I could check out the book she had been reading and find out over the weekend what happened next.
Thankfully, Amelia wouldn’t leave us with bowls of cookie dough. She would see us through to the finished product.
“We are going to make two kinds of cookies. The ones from Burano are called bussola, as you know. My favorite after-dinner cookie is amaretti. We are going to make those too. I have three different recipes for them. They can be hard like cantuccini, or I think you call it biscotti. Those recipes have no butter or oil. For my family, we periodically had cantuccini as an after-dinner biscuit. We always had ama retti morbidi. Morbidi means soft. If you like almond and marzipan, you will love my amaretti morbidi recipe.”
“Love it already,” Claire said.
Amelia gave us a cute smile. “This is my own recipe. I think it is better than my nonna’s recipe because she added extra virgin olive oil.”
I grinned. Of course she did.
“My recipe has no oil, and I like how they look when you add what we call zucchero a velo as soon as you remove them from the oven. In England they called it icing sugar. I’m not sure what Americans call it.”
“Powdered sugar,” Claire said. “Or confectioner’s sugar.”
“Yes. Okay. Let’s begin.” Amelia put us to work mixing two different batches of cookies and gave us interesting information on egg yolks.
She said the best eggs have the darkest, almost orange yolk.
Since the bussola were made from only the yolks and not the egg whites, she made sure the batch I was mixing received the best eggs.
“The yolks will determine the color of the cookies. You want them to be golden yellow. Not pale yellow. It’s all in the egg yolk.”
The nice balance between the two recipes was that the bussola used only egg yolks and the amaretti used only egg whites. Claire picked up impressive speed as she hand-whipped the egg whites into a froth before adding the almond extract, or as Amelia called it, the almond “essence.”
Amelia showed me how she used a small tool to zest the fresh lemon that came from one of their trees. She made a more elegant motion with her hand than I did when I tried to do it. The fragrance was divine, so I didn’t mind keeping up with my weak attempts.
“If Gio were here, he would say to add his mother’s secret ingredient to this recipe.”
“Which is?” Claire asked.
“A spruzzo of rum.” Amelia’s hand motion indicated just a quick splash of the secret ingredient. “I think she had a different liqueur for everything she made. I prefer when only the lemon takes the credit for the bussola flavor. No rum for us today. But maybe you would like to try it another time.”
Claire’s dough was already finished and ready to go on the cookie sheet. Amelia recommended that Claire use her hands rather than a small scoop to create the round balls. “How can the biscuits know you love them unless you hold them and shape them before they go into the oven?”
Amelia’s poetic words reminded me of her cooking-with-passion intro from our first class. She wiped her hands on her apron and went over to the counter. The kitchen was soon filled with romantic Italian music.
I loved the way I felt right then with these two women, surrounded by delicious fragrances and classical music. After the depth and breadth of emotions I had experienced yesterday, today was restorative.
As dusk spread her calm over the villa that evening, we gathered again at the table under the wisteria.
The menu featured Gio’s pride and joy, an unbelievable piece of beef.
I referred to it as a porterhouse when I saw it on the grill.
Gio called it bistecca alla Fiorentina, and Amelia explained that it was famous in this region because the meat came from a Chianina cow, which is a breed found only in Tuscany.
Along with the steak we had a salad made of fresh greens from the garden, small red potatoes, and cannellini beans, another local traditional side.
Amelia paired our meal with an incredible local red wine that opened up the flavor of the tender meat even more with each bite.
I had never in my life eaten such a delicious piece of meat. Ever.
“I don’t want to leave,” Claire said after her last bite.
“You can’t leave the table because I haven’t served our bussola and amaretti yet.”
Rosie took Amelia’s comment as her cue and popped up to clear dishes, then brought out our baked treats. I liked the lemon flavor in the bussola, but I told Amelia I had to agree with her. The soft amaretti melted in my mouth, and with the honeyed apricot wine, they were my favorite too.
“Both batches turned out scrumptious,” I said. “How could they not? They were made with love. So much love and passion.”
Amelia glowed at the compliment. I had taken a photo of her well-used recipe card and had a feeling I would always keep the photo on my phone to remind me of our afternoon in Amelia’s kitchen.
The five of us lingered in the silky evening for another hour, sipping the amber dessert wine and nibbling on the cookies.
“I don’t want to leave,” Claire said again.
“As you said,” Rosie teased. “But now we’ve truly run out of courses.”
“I meant I don’t want to leave this place. I don’t want to leave you guys. I learned so much about cooking, and everything we talked about this morning gave me a lot to think about,” Claire said, turning her gaze to Gio.
“It’s been our pleasure,” Amelia said.
“We are so grateful,” I added. “I feel like we’ve been here for a month, not just a few days. Amelia, what you and Gio have created here is a sacred space.”
“That’s what we hoped it would become,” Amelia said.
Since I was seated next to our radiant hostess, I surprised myself by leaning over and giving her an Italian-style brush of a kiss on both cheeks. She smiled warmly.
Claire added, “This place is special and the three of you are very special. Thank you for letting us invade your lives.”
“Invade?” Amelia repeated. “No. You were welcomed in, and I hope you know you are always welcome in our home and at our table. I want you to come back and stay longer.”
“Be careful!” Rosie teased. “She said those same words to me, and here I am for the summer!”
“And hopefully longer,” Amelia added.
Gio reached across the dishes and gave Claire’s wrist a squeeze. He looked her in the eye and said something in Italian. Amelia didn’t translate. Apparently she didn’t need to because Claire seemed to understand and nodded.
I glanced at Rosie. Her expression told me that she knew what this was about.
“I must have missed something significant while I was having my swim and napini,” I said.
“Napini!” Rosie echoed. “Perfect. Yes. I love that. I’m going to use that. It’s not a real word, is it? It’s not really Italian.”
Amelia grinned. “It’s not Italian for taking a nap, but it is the word for the flowering bud on a kale plant. I have a recipe for sautéed napini. I’ve never tried it. When you two come back, Claire and I will try my napini recipe.”
“And if you want to know where I am,” Rosie said, “I’ll be with Grace, trying her napini recipe by the pool.”
Once we were back in our room, I asked Claire what her conversation with Gio had been about while I was at the pool.
“Forgiveness and other assorted mysteries.”
I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. Both of us were in somber moods as we packed and made sure we had everything ready for our departure from the villa the next morning. Ours was the sleep of the well-fed and grateful.