Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“Two Italians?” he asks.

“Fine if you’re from different parts.”

“Good. I’m Pugliese and you’re…what are you?”

“Tuscan and Calabrese.”

“So we’re okay?”

“We’re fine,” I assure him.

“Maybe it’s the careers that are killers. How about a chef and a shoemaker? Does that work?”

I reach up and kiss him, saying, “That depends.”

“But what if you’re all about the drama? The drama of creativity and risk? What if that kind of passion is the thing that binds you together?”

“Well, then obviously, I would have to revisit my rule.”

“Good.” Roman lays another sheet of dough over the press. I fill the wells carefully. “Why don’t you go out in the restaurant and put your feet up?”

“No thanks. I like to help. Besides, if I didn’t, I’d never see you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says tenderly. “Occupational hazard.”

“You can’t help it, and you shouldn’t. You love your work and I love that you love it.”

“You’re the first woman I ever dated who understands that.”

“Besides, I’m more helpful to you here than you would be to me at the shop. I can’t see you sewing pink bows on bridesmaid shoes.”

“I’m lousy with a needle and thread.”

Roman lays a final sheet of pasta dough over the wells, snaps the press shut, reopens it, and a dozen ravioli squares pop out of the trap. He places them on the wooden tray with the others. Then he opens the oven and checks the roast pork and root vegetables, simmering in a wine reduction that fills the kitchen with the scent of butter, sage, and warm burgundy wine. I watch as he skillfully juggles the preparation of the meal. He invests himself in his work; it’s clear he is dedicated and puts in the hours. Roman also does the research. He tests new recipes and combinations, trying things out, rejecting ideas, replacing old ones with new.

Despite the depth of my feelings (and his), I sometimes wonder how we can build a relationship when we hardly see each other. I remember reading an interview with Katharine Hepburn. She said that a woman’s job in a relationship with a man was to be adorable. I attempt to be a no-fuss, stress-free, supportive girlfriend who is more than aware of the pressures he has at work, so I don’t pile on more. To be fair, he does the same for me. I figure as long as we’re both in the same place, I imagine this arrangement will work just fine and get us to the next level (whatever that is).

“Hi, kids!” Mom enters the kitchen loaded down with shopping bags. “I did a downtown shopping blitz. I can’t resist a deal, and nobody tops Chinatown for bargains. Silk slippers for two dollars.” She holds up a bag stuffed with them.

“I know what I’m getting next Christmas.”

“In twelve months, you’ll forget I bought these. Your sisters are here. The boys are parking. You’re making ravioli?”

“Tonight’s special,” says Roman.

“Yum.”

“Where’s Dad?” I ask.

“He’s making a shaker of Manhattans behind the bar. Is that okay, Roman?”

“Absolutely. Make yourselves at home. This night is all about you,” Roman says and smiles.

“And it’s just wonderful! We have our own private chef in his own hot restaurant cooking for us. It’s more than we deserve!”

“I’ll meet you at the bar, Mom.” Mom goes back out to the dining room as I lift the tray of finished ravioli and place them on a portable shelf on wheels. I pull the shelf toward the worktable. “You know my mother is very impressed with you.”

“I can tell. You win over Mama and you got the daughter.”

I reach up and kiss Roman. “Mama doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

Roman hands me a basket of homemade bread sticks to take out to the bar.

Mom and Dad sit on bar stools with their backs to the restaurant. Dad’s feet, in black suede Merrells rest on the lower bar of the stool, while Mom’s, in dark brown calfskin ankle boots with a high wedge heel, dangle above the foot bar, like a child’s. Tess and Jaclyn stand next to the bar. Tess is wearing a red cocktail dress, while Jaclyn wears black maternity pants and a matching oversize turtleneck. Jaclyn holds up her hand. “I know. I’m the size of a bus.”

“I didn’t say a word.” I give her a quick hug.

“I saw it in your eyes.”

“Actually, I was thinking how beautiful you look.”

Jaclyn takes the bread basket and pulls a stick from the pile. “Nice try.” She chews. “I just hit double digits in pants.”

“I should have your pants play the stock market,” Dad jokes.

“Not funny, Dad,” Jaclyn says as she chews.

“How’re you feeling?” I put my hands on my father’s shoulders.

“Your mother ran me all over Chinatown like a runaway rickshaw. I’ll be dead but she’ll have a lifetime supply of slippers.”

“Where are your husbands?” I ask Tess.

“Parking.”

“Thank God the boys like each other.” Mom swirls her burgundy-colored Manhattan around in the tumbler and sips. “You know that doesn’t usually happen with in-laws.”

Tess looks at me.

“Ma, we know, ” I remind her. Sometimes Mom can be clueless; after all, we’ve had nothing but frost with Pamela for years. “Are Pamela and Alfred coming? They didn’t RSVP.”

“We’re still on the Island,” Tess says and shrugs. “Pam hasn’t spoken to any of us since the blowup at Christmas.”

“Did you call and apologize?” Mom asks her.

“I don’t know what to say. Besides, Valentine should call. She’s the one who blurted it out.”

“We all call her Clickety Click. Besides, she calls us the Meatball Sisters behind our backs and I never got an apology for that.” I sound five years old.

“Mom, you make comments about her size, too,” Jaclyn says as she fishes a cherry out of her ginger ale, pops it into her mouth, and chews.

“About her general size, her smallness, yes, but never specifically her feet.”

“Feet, ass, hands, it doesn’t matter,” Dad declares. “You girls are icky picky and Pamela got her feelings hurt. Now it’s up to you to heal the rainbow. Our rainbow has a gaping hole in it right now because you can’t keep your opinions to yourselves. Somebody needs to call her and straighten out the situation.”

“Your father is right. We should call her,” Mom says.

“I don’t want to call her!” Jaclyn grabs another breadstick. “I can’t! I’m seasick until noon every day, and the truth is, I can’t take any more stress. I’m tired of it. She’s been in this family for years. Grow a hide already! Yeah, we’re a tough crowd, but so what? And while you’re at it, eat a sandwich. Clickety Click? It’s more like Thin-ety-thin.”

“The pregnancy hormones have arrived,” Mom whispers. “Must be a boy.”

Charlie and Tom enter the restaurant and greet Mom and Dad. Roman comes out of the kitchen with a plate of fried pumpkin blossoms. He places them on the bar, then shakes their hands.

“I’m giving you four stars already for the parking. It was a slam dunk.” Charlie takes off his coat.

“Parking is a snap in Little Italy,” Dad says. “Italians know how to attract business, right, Roman? And when we taste your food, we’ll tell you if you can keep it.” Dad throws Roman a wink.

Roman forces a smile. My father doesn’t notice. Gram pushes the door open and enters. She takes off her hat, shakes out her new hair, and then turns full circle, like a model. Charlie and Tom whistle, while my sisters marvel at her brown hair.

“Ma! You’re a brunette again!” Mom claps her hands together joyfully. “Finally you took my advice!”

Dad spins around on his bar stool. “Somebody’s been throwin’ back her Geritol,” he says approvingly.