Читать книгу Francesca's Kitchen - Peter Pezzelli - Страница 9

“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 the local farms she would find there in the balmy days of August. The cherry tomatoes, bursting with sweetness at the first bite. The big beef tomatoes, so luscious and heavily laden with flavor that just one was a meal in itself. And her favorites, the oval-shaped plums. It was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

Leo, of course, had kept a tomato garden for years, spoiling Francesca. How could these pale things before her even compare? There were not words enough to describe the scent and taste of a sun-warmed tomato just plucked from the vine. Sinking your teeth into it, letting the sweet juiciness fill you up, renewed the life inside you. It was like eating sunshine. There was no end to the uses to which she would put those beautiful sun-ripened tomatoes from her husband’s garden. Marinara sauces, pizza, salads, sandwiches. Her favorite, though, was a simple tomato salad. Francesca would start by cutting up the tomatoes and tossing them into a bowl with a healthy dose of virgin olive oil. Next, she would add a clove or two worth of diced garlic, some chopped basil and oregano picked fresh from her own little garden, then pinches of salt and pepper. Finally, she would toss it all together once or twice, and she was done. The addition of a loaf of fresh-baked bread and maybe a nice piece of cheese was all anyone needed for dinner on a hot summer’s evening. If she and her husband were really hungry, they found that nothing went better with those tomatoes than a thick juicy steak hot off the grill. That was Leo’s favorite meal in the summer. He loved to scoop up the tomatoes and drizzle the juice and olive oil and bits of garlic onto the meat. It brought a contented smile to his face every time. Despite the paltry selection of produce before Francesca, the memory brought a wistful smile to her face. She let out a long sigh.

“Cooking for the family tonight?” asked Tony, bringing her back from her reveries.

“Eh, I wish, Tony,” she answered, shaking her head. “No, it’s only me tonight. I was just in the mood for some nice tomatoes, that’s all. Something to make me forget about all this cold weather.” She cast another baleful look at the tomatoes. “But I can’t bring myself to do it,” she said glumly.

“I know what you mean,” Tony confessed with a nod of his head. “Tell you the truth, I won’t eat those things myself. But I suppose they’re better than nothing in the winter. Just be patient. It’ll be summer before you know it, and we’ll have some nice tomatoes in. By then, of course, we’ll all be complaining because it’s so hot outside.”

“And by then you’d better make sure that inside you have that air conditioner working again,” she admonished him. “Not like that time last summer when it broke and it was a hundred degrees in here.”

“Ayyy, don’t worry,” sighed Tony. “My wife has already reminded me a thousand times about that. You two are a lot alike; you never forget anything.”

“It comes with being a woman.”

With that, Francesca continued on to collect the few things that she needed from the market that day. In truth, she could have managed quite well with what she already had at home. But it had been two days since she had returned from Florida, and this was the first time she had stepped outside. Already it felt as though the walls were closing in around her, so a trip to the market had been a good excuse to get out of the house. The previous day had been spent unpacking, washing her clothes, and getting her closet back in order. Then there were the bills to be paid, and the appointments to be confirmed to have her hair done and to get a checkup from the doctor. Francesca liked to have everything in order. She started each day by making a list of things she needed to do. While she sipped her morning coffee, she would check the list from the day before to see if there was anything she had forgotten. She lived alone, so it was easy to forget things. Organizing her day in this way made her life easier. It kept her busy and made the days when she was alone pass more quickly.

The only items on the list for her excursion to the market were a half gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. The tomatoes had been an afterthought. A few other odds and ends caught her eye as she made her way up and down the aisles. She tossed them into the cart and ambled along. Francesca took her time; there was really no hurry. She had no place else in particular to go and nothing else to do that day. Now and then, she cast a glance over to the entrance, hoping to spy a familiar face coming in, one of her market friends, as she liked to call them. Most of her old friends from the neighborhood were gone, some having moved to warmer climes, some to retirement centers or nursing homes, and some directly to the next life. Still, there were new faces she had come to know, younger couples who had moved in to take the place of the old. Francesca enjoyed seeing these new people, exchanging a few moments of pleasant conversation with the younger women, commenting on the price of this or that, complaining about the weather. Most of all, she loved seeing their little children, especially the newborns. It gave her hope.

On this day, however, there was no one in the store she recognized, so she pushed her cart up to the checkout counter, where Tony’s wife, Donna, waited by the cash register.

“Find everything you need, Mrs. Campanile?” she asked. “I see you have your milk and bread. That’s good. They say we might get some snow later today.”

“Oh, yes,” Francesca replied as she started to put her groceries up on the counter. “I heard the forecast. I’ve got everything I need, not that I’m one of those nervous Nellies who thinks the sky is falling every time she sees a few snowflakes, but it never hurts to be prepared.”

“They say we might get six or seven inches,” Donna said as she scanned the groceries. “Sounds like it will be a good night to just stay home.”

Francesca nodded and smiled. “What else would I do?” she thought.