Life From Scratch (17 page)

Patricia thrust her head into the breakfast room, a scowl contorting her face. She opened her mouth, then thought better of it. When she stomped back upstairs and slammed her bedroom door, the whole house shook. A moment later, she was back. She looked at me, then fled back upstairs and slammed her door again.

Finally she was back. “Michael killed himself because of you,” she fumed. “It’s
your
fault, not mine. I picked up the phone when he was talking to a friend. He said
you
were driving him crazy.”

She turned on her heel and disappeared into her room.

I stared at the empty doorway in shock. Five years had passed since Michael had died. I’d never heard her say anything about his death, let alone whose fault it was. My mind swirled with anger, disbelief, and then doubt. The thought of being responsible for his death was too much. Adrenaline pushed into my veins, fingertips, and toes. A scream rose up inside my chest. But I shut my eyes and silenced my simmering emotions. There was no peace in this forced quiet, only stubborn survival. Slowly, I shouldered my gym bag and left.

Patricia’s words consumed me for the next days and weeks while I replayed them over and over:
Could she be right? Was it my fault? Did he give up on life because I was a pain in the neck?
It seemed ridiculous. My friend Annie assured me that it was. But since I hadn’t heard the conversation, I couldn’t be sure.

Annie said she thought Patricia blamed me because she had her own guilt to unload. “Think about it, Sasha. She took you kids in. He died on her watch. Everyone knows it wasn’t her fault, but that doesn’t mean she believes it. She
had
to make you the scapegoat, just to make the hurt ease up.”

I wasn’t sure, but I did know one thing: I didn’t want to upset Patricia again. I hollowed out my personality in an attempt to remove any potential source of conflict, real or imagined. Instead of telling her I didn’t like the Swiss cheese she put on our hamburgers, I simply said I was vegetarian—except for fish and chicken. I left the house as much as possible, finding solace in my friendships. I never told Pierre what had happened; he watched me come and go with a look of bewildered concern. I kept the conversation with Patricia to the essentials, like what time I had to be at school, or where my sport trips would take me.

On those trips, my friends became my family—Annie more than any other. When she invited me to spend Christmas with her in Spain, we all welcomed the idea. Annie and I spent those two weeks eating paella, a traditional Spanish rice dish made with smoked paprika, saffron, and all manner of fish or meat. We wandered daily through the neat orange groves in the valley below her parents’ small villa. One afternoon, I plucked an orange from the branches but found that the center was more pith than pulp. When I asked Annie when the fruit would sweeten, she shook her head and said, “No telling.”

One evening in early spring, I came home from school to find Pierre in the kitchen holding a box of spaghetti, reading the label.

“What are you doing?” I asked, surprised to see him there. He was never in the kitchen, unless he was grabbing one of his daily apples from the fruit basket on the counter. “Where’s Patricia?”

“Patricia went to the States to take care of her dad for a few months.” He turned the box in his hand, tracing his finger along the ingredients label. “Hey, do you have any idea how to make this?”

“What do you mean, she went to the States?”

“She … she just had some things she needed to take care of.”

I waited for him to elaborate, but he kept staring at the spaghetti box.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked. “Is she mad at me?”

“No.” He shook his head sadly, “She’s just mad at the whole world right now. She needs some time. And her father needs her.”

I considered Pierre’s expression, so tightly controlled, but so clearly brokenhearted. This string bean of a man had no idea what to do without his wife. For the first time, I noticed a few strands of gray in his brown hair.

I took the box from his hand and read the label: “Boil 2 quarts of water. Add pasta. Cook 8 to 10 minutes.”

Pierre got out a measuring cup and began to dump 8 cups of water into a pot, one by one.

“You really don’t need to do that,” I laughed. “Let me help.”

I filled the pot with a rush of water, stopping when it was three-quarters full. I cranked the heat to high, dumped a handful of salt in the water, and popped on the lid. Pierre reached for the tomato sauce, but I pried Patricia’s
Joy of Cooking
off the shelf and thumbed through the worn pages until I found the entry for homemade Alfredo sauce. I accidentally added the flour after the milk, so it came out lumpy, but a quick taste proved that the mash was still edible.

Next I chopped a salad. Pierre and I enjoyed our makeshift dinner at the breakfast table with mismatched plates and paper napkins. It was nowhere as beautiful as Patricia’s meals, but it was seasoned with the luscious sauce of accomplishment. While we ate, I asked Pierre if I could help cook dinner again sometime.

“You don’t need to worry about dinner
—
”

“But I
want
to.”

“Well, how about I make dinner during the week, and if you want to play on the weekends, go for it.” He looked over to the basket of potatoes. Their knobby eyes were sprouting white, slender roots. “What do you think about starting a garden? We could grow Brussels sprouts. And potatoes.”

I clapped my hands. “Let’s do it right now!”

So we went outside, beneath the sinking sun, and tilled the overgrown garden patch until the dry crust was replaced with moist, black soil.

The next day at school I rushed to my friends, thrilled with the prospect of cooking again. “Who wants to start a cooking club? We can all take turns hosting at our houses. I can go first!” I wanted to make sure I’d be able to get my night in before Patricia returned.

That Saturday, Annie came to the house with a basket of lettuce, tomato, red onion, feta cheese, and olives. A soft baguette was tucked under her arm, still warm from the bakery. We paraded solemnly into Patricia’s long dark kitchen.

“It feels so weird being in here,” I confided.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Can’t let a perfectly good kitchen go to waste!” she said, flipping on the light switch.

We hunted through the cabinets, rummaging until we uncovered a green stoneware mixing bowl. Carefully I added some flour, four eggs, and a sprinkling of water to make homemade pasta. But the dough was a stiff knot, ravines cracking through the surface even as we tried to knead it together. I remembered how Mom used to say Grammie made hers with the strength of a hundred Italian sailors.

“I don’t know, maybe we should rest our arms for a minute,” I said.

Annie threw a damp cloth over the dough and we ran down to the liquor store. Ignoring the shop owner’s recommendations for a crisp white wine, we filled our arms with sangria mix. Back at the house, we poured it into a pitcher along with sliced oranges, limes, and lemons.

Twenty minutes later, I poked the mound of dough with my finger and was surprised to find that it dimpled softly. I cupped my hands around it and squeezed. The craggy surface yielded, mashing together smoothly. Annie and I laughed. Maybe what appeared to be strength was in truth a question of knowing when to work the dough and when to let it rest.

Pierre came in to see what we were doing. I handed him a half-glass of sangria and shooed him out of the kitchen.

“We’re fine. Thank you,” I said, smiling.

“OK!” he said, cheerfully.

“Really—thank you.” Suddenly tears were in my eyes, “I don’t think you’ll ever realize what this means to me.”

One by one the girls arrived. While Annie greeted them, I made the Alfredo sauce a second time, whisking whole milk and Parmesan into the pale roux until a velvety white sauce formed. This time there were no lumps. I ladled it over the hot pasta.

The seven of us sat around the dining table, candles lit, wineglasses filled with scarlet-washed fruit. We were only 17 and 18, but we felt like grown-ups. We were so engrossed in conversation that we didn’t even finish the sangria.

Our cooking club continued at everyone’s house, one each week. We ate Turkish food at Yonca’s house and Irish stew at Maeve’s house. Annie decided nothing would be better than to host a chocolate feast. It was one of my happiest high school experiences: building friendship while sharing the joy of communal dining and creation.

Homemade Pasta Dough

Homemade pasta has a mild, toothsome quality that dried pasta cannot match. Even after a good boil, the slippery noodles seem thirsty, soaking up the sauces and broths in which they swim. I, for one, believe all chicken noodle soups should contain such love
.

Though most pasta recipes use semolina and omit water in favor of olive oil, mine is a good beginner recipe—easily workable. But it does need to rest. Twenty minutes in the beginning gives the water time to distribute evenly, smooth
out the gluten strands, and soften the mix. If the dough springs back during rolling, two things can be done to relax the gluten further: Occasionally lift and slap it down onto the table—or walk away for a few minutes
.

A note on salt: Mom taught me what her Grammie taught her—salt the water, not the dough. She says it keeps the dough from getting tough
.

5 cups all-purpose flour

4 large eggs

A little water

Add the flour to a large bowl or mound it onto a clean kitchen counter. Push one of the eggs into the center of the flour and swirl it around to make a crater. Crack the eggs into the crater and beat them into the flour. I like to use my fingertips, but a large fork works well, too.

When the eggs are evenly distributed, stream in the water. I typically use a half cup, but on a dry day, ¾ cup may be necessary. Work the shaggy mass into a rough ball; the dough should be stiff and knotty looking, almost craggy. Cover with a damp cloth and let rest about 20 minutes. This will give the water time to distribute evenly through the flour, making smoother and more pliable dough. Knead for 5 minutes.