Page 15

LIV

I wipe my floury hands on my apron and survey the bustling café, the morning rush in full swing.

The clinking of cups and saucers mingles with the hum of conversation, creating a familiar symphony that usually energizes me.

But today, it all feels... off. Like a recipe with a crucial ingredient missing.

"One flat white and a custard-filled bombolone, please!" calls out Maia, my most cheerful barista.

"Coming right up!" I respond automatically, my hands moving through the motions while my mind wanders.

When did this happen? I wonder, steaming milk with practiced efficiency, the hiss of the machine louder than my thoughts. When did my café, once a dream I worked so hard to build, start feeling like a burden rather than a joy?

I pipe custard into a golden bombolone, the motions automatic, but there’s no heart in it. The delicate pastry, once a symbol of everything I loved about baking, now just feels like another thing on an endless to-do list.

The recent review—it still stings. I try not to let it consume me, but it’s hard not to.

It feels like the one thing that sums up all my self-doubt.

The café isn’t just about baking anymore; it’s about competition.

Winning that competition will give me the financial independence I crave, the reputation I need, but I can’t shake this nagging feeling that I’m not enough.

Every day, I put in hours that never seem to add up. Every customer that walks out unsatisfied makes me question my abilities. I thought I had something special, but now… now it feels like I’m drowning in a sea of not good enough .

"Liv, mia cara!" A familiar voice cuts through my melancholy, and I look up to see Nonna Sofia bustling through the door, bringing with her the scent of rosemary and sunlight.

"Nonna!" I exclaim, my spirits lifting despite myself. "What brings you here so early?"

She makes her way to the counter, shooing away a regular who tries to give up his seat. "Ah, can't an old woman visit her favorite granddaughter without an interrogation?" she says, her eyes twinkling.

I lean across the counter to kiss her cheek, inhaling the comforting scent of her lavender perfume. "Of course, Nonna. It's always wonderful to see you."

She scrutinizes my face, her brow furrowing. "Hmmm. You look like over proofed dough, mia cara. All puffed up with worry and about to collapse."

I laugh. "Only you could make that sound affectionate, Nonna."

"Tell me, what's troubling you?" she asks, reaching out to pat my hand. "Your eyes are missing their usual sparkle."

I hesitate, glancing around at the busy café. "It's nothing, really. Just... feeling a bit overwhelmed lately."

Nonna Sofia clicks her tongue. "Ah, I see. You've forgotten the most important ingredient in any recipe."

"What's that?" I ask, curious despite myself.

She leans in conspiratorially. "Joy, mia cara. The joy of creation. Remember when you were little, and you'd stand on a stool to help me knead bread? Your little face would light up with every punch and fold."

The memory warms me, and I feel a smile tugging at my lips. "I remember. You'd let me shape my own little loaf, and I'd be so proud, even if it came out lopsided."

"Exactly!" Nonna exclaims. "Baking isn't just about the perfect rise or the precise measurements. It's about the love you pour into every creation. You've lost that, haven't you?"

I nod, feeling a lump form in my throat. "I think I have, Nonna. Everything's become so... routine. I used to get excited about trying new flavors, creating special pastries for holidays. Now it all just feels like work."

Nonna Sofia's eyes soften. "Ah, mia cara. Remember, even the simplest dough needs time to rest and rise. Perhaps it's time for you to do the same."

I glance around the busy café, feeling a familiar surge of responsibility. "But how can I? There's always so much to do."

"The world won't end if you take a moment to breathe, Liv," Nonna says gently. "Sometimes, to rediscover our passion, we need to step back and remember why we fell in love with it in the first place."

Her words settle over me like a warm blanket, and I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders. "You're right, Nonna. As always."

She pats my hand again. "Of course I am. Now, how about you take a little break and we'll have a coffee together? I'll even let you make me one of those fancy lattes with the pretty pictures on top."

I laugh, already reaching for a cup. "Coming right up, Nonna. And... thank you."

As I start crafting a heart in the foam of Nonna's latte, I feel a tiny spark reignite in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, it's time to rediscover the joy in my craft.

“Why not enter the competition?” she asks, casually, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

I blink, caught off guard. The competition she is talking about is local, well-known, and packed with top-tier bakers. The idea of competing feels like both a dream and a nightmare. Can I really stand up against those professionals? My hands tremble at the thought.

But Nonna’s words ring out clearly. “You’ve got the gift, Liv. You need to show them what you can do.”

She doesn’t give me room to argue. She believes in me more than I believe in myself.

Entering would push me—force me to stop doubting my worth and actually prove something, not just to the world, but to myself.

If I win, it could mean the financial boost I need and the recognition I crave.

If I lose, well… it would just be another failure to add to my growing list. But what if I didn’t even try?

Her encouragement, that quiet faith in my abilities, makes me wonder if I have been holding myself back.

Maybe this is the opportunity I need. I don’t know if I’m ready, but at least I have something to fight for again.

The thought of competing lights a spark in me, something I haven’t felt in a long time.

The cool metal of the mixing bowl grounds me as I run my fingers along its rim.

Nonna's words echo in my mind, and for the first time in weeks, I feel a flutter of excitement in my chest. I reach for the flour, letting it sift through my fingers like sand through an hourglass. This dream was about building a life I wanted, but by living in fear that my mother could take it all away, I’d begun to let her control my life anyway. No more.

"Okay, Liv," I mutter to myself, tying my apron with a determined flourish. "Let's see what you've got."

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. The scent of yeast and warm sugar fills my nostrils, transporting me back to lazy Sunday mornings in Nonna's kitchen. A smile tugs at my lips as I begin to mix the dough, my hands moving with a rhythm I'd forgotten I possessed.

As I knead, an idea starts to form. "What if..." I pause, flour dusting my cheek as I brush away a stray curl. "What if I combined Nonna's bolognese recipe with... rugby?"

The absurdity of the thought makes me giggle, but the more I consider it, the more it appeals to me. Elliott's passion for the sport has been rubbing off on me, and suddenly, I can't shake the image of a hearty meat pie shaped like a rugby ball.

"This is either going to be brilliant or a total disaster," I announce to the empty kitchen, already reaching for the ground beef. "But at least it'll be fun."

My movements become more confident as I brown the meat, adding Nonna's secret blend of herbs and a splash of red wine. The familiar scents mingle with my newfound excitement, creating a heady mixture that has me humming an old Italian folk song.

"Now for the twist," I murmur, eyeing the oddly shaped pie tin I'd impulse-bought months ago. "Let's see if we can make this bolognese bounce."

As I pour the rich, meaty sauce into the rugby ball-shaped crust, I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. "Elliott's going to love this," I think, imagining his face when he sees it. "Or he'll think I've gone completely mad."

Either way, as I slide the creation into the oven, I realize I haven't felt this light, this joyful about baking in far too long. "Grazie, Nonna," I whisper, sending a silent thanks to my grandmother's wisdom. "You were right. Sometimes we just need to play with our food."

The bell chimes again, and this time, I catch a glimpse of tousled blond hair and broad shoulders. My heart does that silly little dance it always does when Elliott walks in.

"Something smells absolutely divine in here," he calls out, his voice carrying that hint of rural charm that never fails to make me grin.

I pop my head out from the kitchen. "That would be my latest masterpiece, Mr. Snow. Care for a taste test?"

Elliott's eyes light up as he spots me, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Well, if the chef insists. Though I hope it's not another one of your experimental beetroot and kale concoctions."

I gasp in mock offense. "I'll have you know that was a culinary breakthrough!"

"For the compost bin, maybe," he teases, leaning against the counter.

I grab a fork and slide a generous slice of the rugby pie onto a plate. "Just for that, you only get a small piece."

As Elliott takes his first bite, I hold my breath. His eyes widen, and he lets out a low whistle. "Liv, this is... incredible. What is it?"

"Bolognese pie," I announce proudly. "With a little rugby flair, of course. I was feeling inspired."

"By rugby?" Elliott raises an eyebrow, a grin spreading across his face. "I wonder who could've sparked that particular inspiration."

A hot blush creeps up my cheeks. "Oh, you know, just a certain Iceman who's been melting his way into my kitchen lately."

Elliott's expression softens, and he reaches across the counter to take my hand. "Speaking of melting, I've had a bit of a breakthrough myself today. Realized I need to ease up on the training, give myself time to heal properly."

"That's wonderful, Elliott," I squeeze his hand. "I'm proud of you for listening to your body."

As the evening settles in, we find ourselves cozied up in a corner booth, sharing the last of the bolognese pie. The café is quiet now, fairy lights twinkling outside the windows, casting a warm glow over us.

Elliott takes another bite, closing his eyes in appreciation. "You know, this pie is a lot like you, Liv."

I cock my head, curious. "Hearty and full of carbs?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "No, though that's not entirely inaccurate. I meant it's the perfect blend of tradition and innovation. Just like how you honor your family's recipes but aren't afraid to put your own spin on things."

“I thought I might use this for the competition.”

“You’re bound to win, then, Liv. Though I think everything you bake is perfect. Kind of like you.”

“Will you be there?”

“I’ll have to rush from the match, but”—he picks up her hand and kisses her knuckles—“I’ll make it. I promise.”

“Thank you.” It’s hard to rely on someone. I’ve struggled so much for my independence. Even this competition is another battle to keep my own life, to protect my future from my mother. But Elliott doesn’t try to dominate my future; he helps me achieve it.

A warmth spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with the pie. "Well, aren't you just full of surprises today, Mr. Snow? First taking care of yourself, and now you're a food critic?"

"What can I say?" he grins, leaning in closer. "You inspire me to be my best self, on and off the field."

We laugh and share stories over the remnants of our meal. Maybe, just maybe, we're cooking up something even more special than bolognese pie.