“No, you sit where you are. Okay, then. I think we’re set.” She untied the apron that covered her skirt and sat down to the left of her husband.
“Did you all hear your mother? Hush up now.” Vincent’s father raised his voice to be heard over the chattering.
Quiet fell over the table, and Mr. DiMartino cleared his throat. “In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit.” He crossed himself, and around the table, nine others followed suit. Only the baby and I refrained; I assumed he didn’t have the muscle control yet, and I wasn’t Catholic. Even Liam did it. I frowned, wondering when my WASP friend had gone Italian Catholic on me.
“Bless us, oh, Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.”
“Amen,” everyone echoed, and then they all began moving. Hands reached for bowls, spoons clattered against plates and the loud talking started up again.
“Hey, Amanda.” Liam leaned around Ava to catch my attention. “Are you gearing up for your last go-round with finals?”
I nodded. “Yeah, and I’ll be ready to see it end. I’m just so—”
“Ava, pass the gravy so I can let the baby have a little.” Carl held out his hand.
“Carl, you heard the baby’s doctor. She said we have to introduce one food at a time, so if there’s a reaction, we know what it is.” Angela frowned at her husband.
“Bah!” Vincent’s grandmother waved her hand. “A little taste is good for him. We all started our babies on gravy. It’s not going to hurt nobody.”
“Ma, he’s her baby, Ange knows what she’s doing.” Mrs. DiMartino shook her head. “But Ange, there’s nothing in my gravy that would hurt my grandson. You know that. Just my own tomatoes that I can myself, and good meat from the Albertsons’ farm, and garlic. Olive oil. No sugar, nothing that isn’t pure and good.”
“Yeah, I know, Ma.” Angela looked torn. “It’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with your gravy, it’s just—what if he’s allergic to tomatoes? Or garlic?”
Mrs. DiMartino lifted one shoulder. “You breastfeed him, and you eat all that. He’s strong and healthy. I understand being careful, but there’s such a thing as too careful.”
“What the doctors say today, they’re too cautious. If we did what they did, our kids would be wrapped up in cotton all day long.” This time, it was Vincent’s grandfather who spoke up. “Kids need to run around outside. They need to play in the dirt and eat some worms.”
A collective groan went up from our end of the table, making the rest of the conversation all over pause for a moment. “Pop, since when did you ever let us eat worms? Since when did any of us let our kids do that? It’s crazy talk.” Mrs. DiMartino threw up her hands.
“He’s just making a point.” Vincent’s grandmother laughed, and then she turned to me. “I heard them say you’re a lawyer? That’s a very good job to have.”
“Not quite yet.” I smiled. “But soon, I hope. I graduate next month, and then I have to pass the bar and find a job. But ... we’ll see.”
“She’s going to crush it.” Vincent squeezed my hand and smiled. “Amanda’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, and she can win an argument with anyone.”
I laughed. “I don’t know. You give me a pretty good run for my money when it comes to arguing.”
“That’s Vincent,” his mother remarked. “From the time he could talk. I say do something, he says, why? I say something is green, he swears that it’s blue. We used to say he was on the wrong side of every debate, that one.”
Vincent’s mouth tightened, and I scrambled to think of something to say, a way to change the subject. “Vincent is excellent at bringing up points even I hadn’t considered. I think that’s a very good thing.”
His eyes met mine, and some of the tension melted from his face.
“Taking up with a lawyer is a good idea, Vince.” Mr. DiMartino’s voice carried over the rest of the talk. “Someone sues you for a bad meal, you got legal counsel on your side already. Don’t let her go.”
Vincent rolled his eyes. “Like I need that. You’ve been cooking for longer than I’ve been alive, Pop. Anyone sue you yet?”
His father grunted. “Didn’t have to. I know what I’m doing. I pay attention. I listen to when other people make suggestions. I’m not some thick-skulled hot head who tears off and does whatever the hell he wants.” He spoke matter-of-factly, and somehow, that made his words sharper. More stinging.
I could practically feel Vincent’s tension like a tangible presence next to me. Ava glanced down the table and met my eye, her own expression sober and worried. The older generation, though, apparently remained oblivious to the effect of what they were saying.
“That reminds me, Vince.” Mrs. DiMartino speared a couple of rigatoni on her fork. “That cassata you made for the DelMarcos to try for the anniversary party—Mrs. DelMarco didn’t care for it. She said it’s too fancy. They want a regular cassata, not all the bells and whistles. Not the new-fangled stuff you made.”
Vincent scowled. “Ma, what I made was the traditional cassata. What the hell did she not like about it? It’s sponge cake soaked in rum, with the ricotta in the middle, and then marzipan and the candied fruit. It took me a long time to make it, just for her to try it. It was perfect. Delicious.”
“I’m just telling you what she said. She didn’t want that. She said just the cake with chocolate in it. Like her grandma used to make. That’s what she wants.”
He scoffed. “What her grandma made wasn’t cassata, then. It was probably theal fornoversion, which isn’t correct. It needs to have marzipan. If she wants the other, she can make it herself.” He folded his arms over his chest, which I’d learned was a Vincent-tell forbring it on.
