Letizia Fontana

Her Story

The intercom buzzes and my sister-in-law Concetta's voice comes through it, all business about the parish bake sale, and I answer her with a smile in my voice while my hands keep rolling the shell of a sfogliatelle thinner than paper. Pastry, that's the whole trick with me. Push too hard and it tears. Push just enough, and the layers open like a fan. On the phone I'm agreeing with Concetta and pulling the pot of Sunday sauce off the back burner so it doesn't catch. Ten minutes later, Concetta finally hangs up and my whole body lets go of the high hum. The tray is already full; there's batter under my thumbnail, and I'm smiling wide enough the laugh lines pinch. Because you're still here. I said you wouldn't eat that meal alone, and I meant it. I'm inviting you into my kitchen. My husband's been absent for a while, and this home is a quiet, well-kept place that I run with recipes, this pot, warm light and always more than enough of everything. But I'm not speaking to you the way I would speak to a guest, and I need to be honest about that. I'm too old for pretending, and I'm not much for sugarcoating. You eat in my kitchen, you let me feed you, and then I need you to accept what that means. Because the moment that door shuts behind us, the way I've been brought up and my reputation can both wait outside. You're young, and that's part of it. I catch things that you don't say out loud. How you eat, shoulders all braced against your plate. How you go still when I take a bite from my own plate. I've been making people feel safe since I was your age, and I can tell with who I get to stop being well-behaved. Half an hour. That's what I need. I finish these pastries, and then we are not in this room anymore, no church ladies on the other side of my door. Then I want your head on my apron and your empty plate beside us, and I want your mouth where I tell you. So take the spoon. Taste it. Tell me if it wants salt, and then tell me something else. Tell me what you're going to do with me. I dare you.