Francesca's Kitchen

by Peter Pezzelli

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

No one writes about Italian-American families with the humor, warmth, and heart of Peter Pezzelli. Now, with Francesca's Kitchen, he delivers another winning novel about how much we need the closeness of family--even if we don't know it. Where There's Food, There's Family For years, Francesca Campanile was the queen of her home. Standing in her Rhode Island kitchen, making sauce from sun-ripened tomatoes, dropping in basil from her garden, and adding fresh onion, Francesca dispensed advice as liberally as she did the garlic, arguing nonstop with her son and two daughters. It was wonderful. But now, her children and their children have moved away. And for the widowed Francesca, no longer having a family around to pester, annoy, guide, love, harangue and, of course, cook for, makes her feel useless. Who is she without them? What she needs is another family that needs her, and when she sees Loretta Simmons's ad in the Providence paper for a part-time nanny, she's sure she's found it. All the single mom wants is someone to fill in for a few hours a day. But it's obvious to Francesca that Loretta and her kids need more--a lot more. Loretta's struggling to make ends meet. Every man she brings home is a disaster. And her kids could definitely use some guidance--and a little lasagna, frankly. In these frazzled, disconnected people, Francesca senses a hunger and loneliness as deep as her own. It's time for Francesca to work her magic--if she can--and the best place to start is the kitchen. . . Funny and moving, with a heroine to adore, Francesca's Kitchen is a delicious story about sharing love, life, advice, and, above all, food. Peter Pezzelli was born and raised in Rhode Island. A graduate of Wesleyan University, he lives with his wife, two children and their dog in Rhode Island where, most days, he is busy at work on his next novel. Every Sunday, however, if he's not riding his bike, you'll find him and his family at the dinner table, enjoying a plate of rabes and sausage, or a nice fritatta, or some other favorite Italian dish cooked up by his wife. Praise for the Novels of Peter Pezzelli Every Sunday "A sweet, brave, and funny novel--with a heart as big as the entire state of Rhode Island." --Claire Cook, author of Must Love Dogs Home To Italy A BookSense Pick! "A beautiful novel. . .Peter Pezzelli captures the warmth of Italy--family, friendships, and food--invites us into the world of his wonderful characters, and takes us full circle on a journey of life and love." --Luanne Rice, New York Times bestselling author "Bighearted and wise, Home to Italy is a charming ode to the romance of new beginnings and the Italian gusto for life. Peter Pezzelli's tale of a widower who returns to his childhood town in Abruzzo to rebuild his life, only to be struck by the legendary thunderbolt of love, is a continuous delight."--Louisa Ermelino, author of Joey Dee Gets Wise "With heartwarming touches of humor, Home to Italy reaffirms that life can always be renewed. This is a wonderfully satisfying romance that brings to life the sights, sounds and tastes of Italy." -- Romantic Times "A warmhearted novel, perfect for an autumn evening in front of the fire." -- Litchfield Enquirer

Release date: September 1, 2006

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 356

Sample

There was no point in taking chances, so the first thing Francesca Campanile did after boarding the plane and finding her seat by the aisle was to open her pocketbook and take out her rosary beads. Rolling one of the dark, smooth beads between her thumb and forefinger, she whispered a quick Hail Mary and made the sign of the cross, while ahead of her, at the front of the cabin, a smiling stewardess was just beginning to give her cheerful recitation about what everyone should do in case the cabin lost pressure in flight or the plane plummeted into the ocean or crash-landed after takeoff. The knowledge that there were little air masks that popped out of the ceiling and flotation devices under her seat did little to reassure Francesca that she hadn’t been completely out of her mind just stepping on board. In truth, as whenever she flew, which wasn’t often, it almost seemed as if the stewardess was telling them all these things just to make the passengers like Francesca feel even more scared out of their minds before takeoff—if that was possible. It was like a cruel joke.

Francesca sat there, pondering her rosary beads, until the jet engines began to whine and the plane suddenly lurched forward, giving her a start. As the plane pulled away from the terminal, the stewardess up front babbled on, pointing out all the emergency exits, while one of her coworkers marched up the aisle, telling everyone to put their seats in the upright position. Francesca reached into her pocketbook, pulled out a set of photographs, and placed them on her lap next to the rosary beads. The plane taxied toward the runway, the cabin gently bouncing to-and-fro. It was a crystal clear January day outside, perfect for flying. Just the same, the motion of the plane and the anticipation of their imminent takeoff was profoundly unsettling to Francesca. She clutched the photographs to her heart and looked anxiously about at the people all around her.

The plane was packed, not an empty seat to be seen. It had probably been a mistake taking the seat by the aisle, Francesca told herself; she would probably get trampled if something bad happened and everyone had to get off in a hurry. As it was, people practically knocked each other down to get off the plane even on the best days. It was like the running of the bulls. She could have easily taken the window seat. The nice young man sitting next to her had offered it to her when she had come on board, but she had politely declined. Francesca dreaded flying and was just as happy to be as far away as possible from the window. Somehow, despite the threat of being trampled, it made her feel safer. Besides, she had no intention whatsoever of even looking at the window, never mind looking out of it, so why deny someone else the nauseating pleasure of enjoying the view from thirty thousand feet? The flight from Tampa would take close to three hours, and she intended to spend every second of that time in prayerful meditation, until the plane safely touched down in Providence. Till then, the window was all his.

The young man, who until this moment had been leafing through a magazine, happened to glance her way and notice the rosary beads and photographs.

“A little nervous about flying?” he said with a kind smile.

“Eh,” Francesca replied with a shrug. “I’m an old lady, so who cares if I die, right? But if you ask me, this thing is nothing but a big sardine can with wings. It’s a crazy way to get from one place to another.”

“Well, I guess you have a point there,” the young man laughed. “But it’s still the fastest way to get from one place to another.”

“Ayyy, there’s more to life than speed,” answered Francesca with a wave of her hand.

“Not when you’re in a hurry,” the young man kidded her. “Besides, they say flying is the safest way to travel—you know, statistically anyway. So you shouldn’t worry.”

“I’m a grandmother. All I do is worry.”

“You sound just like my grandmother.”

“We’re all the same.”

The young man laughed again before nodding at the photographs in Francesca’s hand. “Your family?” he asked, as if he sensed that it might make the old woman feel better to show them to him.

“My grandchildren,” said Francesca, smiling for the first time since she had come on board. She knew the young man was just trying to be nice by asking, but she was grateful for the distraction. “See,” she said, passing one of the photographs to him, “those are my two grandsons, Will and Charlie. Look how big they’ve gotten. They live out in Oregon with my daughter Alice and her husband, Bill. That’s them in this other photo. They all moved out west a few years ago, after Bill took a job with some big company out there.” She paused for a moment and let out a sigh. “Seems silly to pick up your wife and children, and move so far away from all your family and friends just for a job,” she went on, “but he makes lots of money—I guess. What do I know?”

The engines gave a brief roar as the pilot maneuvered the plane along the runway into its position behind the other planes waiting to take off. The sound gave Francesca another start, and she clenched the rosary beads tighter in her fist.

“And who’s in the other pictures?” asked the young man, trying to keep her focused on her grandchildren.

“My daughter Roseanne’s three kids,” she replied, passing him another photo. “Rosie lives down here in Florida with her husband, Frank. That’s Dana and Sara, the two oldest girls. Dana’s a teenager now, and Sara’s not far behind. And that’s little Frankie; he’s the youngest. They all came out to the airport today to put me on the plane. I hated to go. I spend so little time with everyone nowadays. Breaks my heart to say good-bye.”

“I’m sure they must come home sometimes to visit you,” offered the young man. “That must make you feel good.”

“Oh, sure,” said Francesca, heaving another sigh. “I fly out to see all of them once or twice a year, and sometimes they fly home to Rhode Island to see me, but it’s not the same as having people close to you all the time. You never feel like you’re a part of each other’s lives, the way you’re supposed to feel about your family. It always feels too rushed, too confused.”

Francesca paused and let her thoughts drift back to the two weeks she had just passed at the home of her daughter and son-in-law. Roseanne was her oldest daughter, and Francesca missed her terribly when they were apart, just like she missed all her children and grandchildren. They were much alike, she and her daughter, both headstrong and independent. Consequently, they had spent the better part of the two weeks quibbling over just about everything. The way Rosie had decided to wear her hair these days—so short, instead of beautiful and long, the way it used to be. What was that all about? And the scandalously skimpy bikinis she let the girls wear to the beach. Francesca would never have let her daughters out of the house wearing such things! The late hour Frank inevitably returned home from the office, and the way he was always too tired to take care of some of the things around the house that she had noticed needed fixing. Maybe he should get up a little earlier in the morning. And the television shows she let Frankie watch, and those crazy video games she let him play. And the way Rosie made her marinara sauce or fried up the eggplant, which wasn’t at all the way she had been taught by her mother. From the moment she had awoken every day to the moment she had gone to bed, it seemed as if Francesca had spent her entire visit bickering nonstop with her daughter.

It had been wonderful.

Francesca understood, of course, that her daughter and son-in-law had built a life of their own together. They had discovered their own ways of doing things, their own ways of raising their children, keeping their house, sharing their meals. They were a family, and their life together had acquired a unique rhythm, which was beautiful and perfect in its own way. Francesca knew that it was she who was out of step with it, she who was disrupting the ordinary ebb and flow of their days. She knew that she made all of them a little crazy whenever she visited, or when they visited her, but wasn’t that what grandmothers were for? Besides, she knew how to make it up to them. When things started to make everyone a little too frazzled, she would offer to stay at home with the kids so that Rosie and Frank could have a night out together just by themselves. When she wasn’t babysitting the kids, she took them to the mall and bought them anything they wanted. She pitched in by helping Roseanne keep the house clean, sweeping the floors and making the beds (which were supposed to be the kids’ jobs, but she didn’t mind), and anything else she happened to notice that might need doing. Most of all, she cooked.

Francesca loved to cook, and she loved to watch people eat what she had cooked. It was one of her greatest pleasures in life. She had that special touch that some people have in the kitchen. She didn’t need to go shopping to prepare a meal. Given five minutes to poke around in the cupboards and the refrigerator, Francesca could always roust up enough ingredients from whatever happened to be on hand to make something that would set mouths to watering. What was to be had? A clove of garlic and a little bit of olive oil? An old box of spaghetti or a leftover piece of meat? A single egg left in the carton? Maybe a bag of spinach or a couple of zucchini that had been forgotten on the bottom of the vegetable drawer? A block of cheese? A can of tomatoes that had been sitting on the back of the shelf for who knows how long? Some crusty old bread that even the birds wouldn’t want?

Nothing went to waste.

Francesca would just add a little of this and a pinch of that to whatever creation sprang from her imagination, sauté it up in the pan or let it simmer in the pot, and before you knew it, dinner was served. Bring her to the grocery store, of course, and the possibilities were endless. Then, if she had a notion to bake a cake or a pie or a batch of pizzelle or a tray of biscotti, and the house suddenly took on the sweet aroma of a bakery on Sunday morning—well, a lot could be forgiven.

And so, when it came time for Francesca to go home, when they all drove out to see her off at the airport, there were hugs and kisses and tears galore. There were promises to call as soon as she made it home and promises to visit again soon. She had looked back only once when she had finally pulled herself away from everyone and made her way to the gate where the plane waited. Little Frankie had been draped over his father’s shoulder. He had waved his little hand and called, “Bye-bye, Nonna,” to her, the sound of his voice so sweet that it had brought the tears anew to her eyes.

Now, as she sat there with the photos in her hand, knowing full well that she must be boring this poor young man to tears of his own, she felt a wave of sadness wash over her, the same one that had washed over her when her grandson had waved good-bye.

“Anyway,” she finally said, “that’s about the best I can do right now: see my family whenever I can, and be happy for what I’ve got instead of sad for what I don’t. So that’s why I get on these stupid airplanes and fly all over the country even though they scare me to death.” Francesca allowed herself another smile. “And that’s why I carry my pictures and these rosary beads with me,” she added. “So that if the worst happens, at least I won’t be all alone.”

The young man cast a bemused glance at the crowded cabin before handing the pictures back to her. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about feeling all alone,” he said, “at least not on this plane.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Francesca. “You’d be surprised at how easy it is for someone to feel lonely even when there are people all around.”

With that, she let the young man go back to reading his magazine. She was grateful for the conversation, for it had made her feel a little better. Just the same, as the engines roared and the plane began its takeoff, Francesca took hold of her rosary beads and the pictures of her grandchildren, and began to pray.

There was no point in taking chances.

No one was there to greet Francesca when the plane arrived at T.F. Green Airport in Warwick, a few miles outside of Providence. This had been the cause of no small amount of consternation on the part of Roseanne, who had wrung her hands about it the entire day before her mother flew home. Wasn’t there anyone who could give her a ride from the airport, her daughter had asked? Who would carry her suitcase, and who would make sure she got safely in the door? And what if something was amiss in the house? It was winter back in the Northeast, cold and snowy. What if she slipped and fell walking up the steps? Why didn’t she move out of that stupid old house and into an apartment in a nice building where they made sure the walks were always shoveled and clean? Or why couldn’t Francesca just move to Florida or Oregon, where at least one sister or the other could look after her?

It was always the same for Roseanne, and for her sister, Alice, as well. No matter how well or poorly a visit with their mother might have gone, the day of parting was inevitably one filled with pangs of regret and guilt at the thought of the old woman being forced to fly all the way home by herself. The one consolation was always that their brother, Joey, could be counted on to be there at the airport to pick her up. Thirty-two and unmarried, Joey was the youngest of Francesca’s three children and the only one to stay close to home. This time, however, Joey himself was away on vacation. He and his rugby friends had decided to take a trip to Australia to see, his sisters and mother could only surmise, if banging into one another’s heads felt any different in that part of the world than it did in New England. In any case, Joey would be gone for the better part of a month, so Francesca was on her own.

Not that she minded.

When the plane landed and Francesca began to make her way out with the rest of the herd, she knew that she would be perfectly capable of carrying her one small suitcase out of the airport, of finding a taxicab to carry her home, and of negotiating the perilous ten paces up the walkway to her front door. Of this she had tried in vain to assure her daughter that day she flew home from Florida. She was a big girl, she told her. And so, when she finally collected her suitcase and made her way to the exit, Francesca was unperturbed by the bone-chilling blast of cold air that swept across the parking lot like a wave of ice water to welcome her when she stepped outside. It affected her little that the bright Florida sunshine and warm, caressing breeze was replaced by the pale gray shroud of a January sky hanging gloomily over the city as she rode home in the taxi. She didn’t mind trudging through the crusty snow that blanketed the walkway to the front steps; the cab driver, after all, was kind enough to carry her suitcase for her. These were all things for which Francesca had prepared herself. How could she have done otherwise? She was a New Englander born and bred.

There was, however, one thing for which Francesca was never quite ready, something that always took her by surprise whenever she came home. That particular day, as was so often the case, she encountered it in that very first moment after she stepped inside the house. Francesca set her suitcase on the floor and closed the door behind her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, of course, she knew that it had been there all along, biding its time, waiting for her return. Still, she chose to forget about it, to push even the thought of it as far back into her subconscious as she possibly could, for it was the one thing that made coming home very difficult, the one thing that, if she dwelt on it, was able to let the harbingers of despair creep into her soul.

The silence.

Alone in the hallway, unwinding the scarf from around her neck, Francesca felt the heavy stillness of the house pressing in all around her, squeezing the breath out of her, keeping her from moving further within. It was like standing in the middle of an elevator that was becoming more and more crowded at each successive floor. Except here, there were no people crushing in on her, only the memories of those who had once happily occupied that same space with her and the echoes of their voices. The joys and sorrows, the laughter and tears, the tranquil and chaotic moments alike, all rushed in and smothered her, like little children greeting a work-weary parent at the door.

Francesca stood there for a time, listening intently. The house, she soon realized, was not completely silent. From the kitchen came the humming of the refrigerator, and from the living room the relentless tock tock tock of the clock on the mantel. Added to these was the low grumble of the furnace in the basement. The monotonous tones, however, did little to dispel the gloomy quiet. There was something unsettling about them that served only to deepen her sense of isolation, and in their monotony, they drove home all the more emphatically the point that there was no one there but her.

Francesca tugged off her overcoat, hung it in the closet, then reached down to collect the pile of bills and solicitations that the mailman had deposited through the slot in the front door. Everything was still addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Campanile. Leo had been gone for over eight years, but Francesca had never bothered to change the name on her mailing address to reflect the fact that she was a widow. Somehow, seeing their names together on the envelopes kept a glimmer of hope burning inside that her husband, even though she could no longer see him, was still in the parlor watching television while awaiting her return, or sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper like he always did, or perhaps upstairs on the bed taking a nap. She half-expected to find him there waiting for her every time she walked through the front door; that half of her felt it keenly when, inevitably, she did not.

Sifting through the mail, Francesca’s spirits brightened when she spied a postcard nestled between the electric bill and a credit card offer. It was from Australia. The front side of the card showed two photographs side by side. Francesca regarded the pictures uneasily. The one on the left was of a young man standing atop the railing of what appeared to be a rather high bridge. Around his ankle was tied some sort of rope. Behind him, a group of smiling onlookers seemed to be cheering the young fool on. The photograph to the right showed the man in midair, his eyes and mouth as wide as saucers as he plummeted off the side of the bridge toward the water far below. The caption on the card read: TAKING THE PLUNGE DOWN UNDER!

Francesca shuddered at the thought of her son doing such a thing. She made the sign of the cross and flipped the card over. It read:

Hi Mom!

Having a wonderful time! Just as well you’re not here.

Joey

“Dio mio!” Francesca exclaimed, looking up to heaven. “What an idiot!”

Refusing to give it another thought, for the whole idea of her son jumping off a bridge just for fun gave her the jimjams, Francesca dropped the postcard back in with the rest of the mail and went to the kitchen. Along the way, she paused to check the thermostat, which she had left set at fifty-five degrees. It was now only slightly warmer than that in the house, and Francesca considered nudging it up a few degrees. She paused and considered the newly arrived gas bill. Pulling the collar of her sweater more tightly about her neck, she decided to leave the thermostat just as it was.

Once in the kitchen, she set the mail onto the table in a neat stack and turned to look out the window over the sink. If the interior of her home seemed gloomy to her, the exterior was positively bleak. It was late afternoon, and the barren trees and shrubs swayed back and forth in the cold wind, while the sun slowly fell off to the west. A thin cover of hard, frozen snow lay across most of the backyard, though here and there a patch of ground managed to show itself. The picnic table at which Francesca liked to sit during the warm weather was blanketed, as were the nearby gardens in which she occasionally liked to putter around. Across the yard, a bird feeder clung to a tree branch. Francesca had filled it before leaving for Florida, but now it was empty, swinging to-and-fro like a pendulum in the wind, not a bird in sight. This saddened Francesca, because she welcomed the sight of the birds happily pecking away at the feeder. They were a sign that life was still close by, even though it was the dead of winter.

Francesca gave a little sigh, turned away from the window, and went to the refrigerator. It was several hours since she had last eaten. The stewardess had offered her a snack during the flight home, but Francesca had said no. She had been too nervous to eat. Besides, Roseanne had packed a pepper-and-egg sandwich for her in case she really became hungry. She had ended up giving it to the young man sitting next to her. He had never before tasted a pepper-and-egg sandwich, so the look of surprise and pleasure on his face when he took his first bite had been the only bright spot of the journey. The rest was just a long blur of nervous anxiety.

Now, peering into the refrigerator, Francesca realized that the anxiety had all passed, but she still did not feel hungry, or if she did, she didn’t care. There was plenty on hand in the refrigerator for her to whip up something quick, but the thought of eating alone at that particular moment took away any satisfaction the meal might have given her. Added to that was the sudden weariness that settled in on her like someone had just handed her a sack of potatoes. She was too tired to cook.

Francesca closed the refrigerator door and walked out of the kitchen to the front hall. Her daughter, she well knew, would be waiting by the telephone back in Florida, anxious to hear that her mother had made it home safely. Francesca would call her from the bedroom and then lie down to rest. She took hold of her suitcase and turned toward the staircase.

“Leo,” she called as she started up the stairs, “I’m home.”

“Tony, you call these tomatoes?”

Tony, the grocer, who at the moment was putting out cucumbers on the shelf across the aisle, looked over at Francesca and gave a shrug. “Well, that’s what it said on the carton they came in, Mrs. Campanile,” he replied with a good-natured smile. Francesca had been coming to the market for years, and Tony had long since become accustomed to her occasional criticisms of the produce selection.

Francesca picked up a piece of the fruit, breathed in what little she could detect of its scent, and made a face that suggested her assessment of it had been less than favorable. She dropped the tomato back in the bin with the others and shook her head in disdain.

“The cardboard boxes these came in probably have more flavor,” she suggested ruefully. “I should find another market.”

“Ayyy, what do you expect?” laughed Tony. “Nobody has good tomatoes this time of year.”

“Ayyy, and that’s what you always say,” replied Francesca, shaking her hand at him for emphasis. “What are you doing? Hiding all the good tomatoes for yourself? I should go to the supermarket down the road. They probably have some nice tomatoes there that actually taste like tomatoes. These things don’t even look like tomatoes.”

Tony chuckled, for this was a scene that had been played out many times there in his little corner market just down the street from Francesca’s house. Inwardly, Francesca gave in to a smile of her own. Both of them knew full well that, despite the lower prices and the greater selection to be found in the huge supermarkets, Francesca preferred the comfort and convenience of her own little neighborhood market. It felt almost like a part of her home. Why would she go anywhere else when Tony carried just about everything she needed? Sure, the detergent and paper goods were a little more expensive, and the store didn’t stock fifteen brands of every item, but nobody anywhere had a better meat selection than Tony’s Market, and the produce, despite her occasional gripes in the winter, was the best around. But there was more to it than just the meat and the fruit and the vegetables that kept her coming back.

Though she would not have admitted it at the moment, Francesca stayed away from the big markets for one simple reason: They made her dizzy. They were all so big and impersonal. Too many people, too many products, too many aisles. Too many everything. Here, everyone knew her. When she walked into the store, she was always greeted with a “Hello, Mrs. Campanile!” or a “What will you have today, Mrs. Campanile?” It was nice to come to a place where you always found the same faces and everybody knew you. Francesca rarely had to waste time looking around for help if she couldn’t find what she was looking for on the shelf or if it was up out of reach. It seemed as though someone would always be nearby looking out for her. “Oh, we moved the spices yesterday to the next aisle over,” Tony might tell her before she needed to ask. “Let me get that for you, Mrs. Campanile,” one of his sons might say before she had a chance to lift her hand. “Try this new brand of pasta we just got in, Mrs. Campanile. I think you’ll like it,” Tony’s wife, Donna, might suggest. Those little gestures of familiarity meant a lot to Francesca. They were the primary reason she always returned. Then, of course, there was the pleasure of knowing that if she was in the mood to complain about anything, a not-uncommon occurrence, she didn’t need to go searching all over creation for the manager. Tony, or Donna, or one of their sons, was always right there every day. There was nothing she liked better than to give one or all of them a good earful now and then, just to keep them on their toes. It made her day. In an odd sort of way, it made theirs as well. They all knew that her occasional outbursts were nine-tenths playful bluster.

The dearth of decent tomatoes, however, was a source of true consternation to Francesca. Not that she blamed Tony for it. She well understood that, no matter where she shopped, the bland, flavorless pieces of near-plastic grown in hothouses or shipped in from somewhere overseas were all that she would find in the middle of the winter. There was nothing to be done about it. But how she longed for those beautiful native tomatoes of late summer! Gazing at the pile of (not) cheap imitations, she tried in her mind to replace them with the sweet, succulent varieties from. . .