I watch the interaction unfold like a cinematic display just for me. A movie I’m not particularly keen on watching. The guy smiles at Hoot, she smiles back. She giggles at something he says, which I guarantee wasn’t that funny. He reaches up to grab the book in question, slowly passing it to Hoot while offering her what only a romance novel would label as a “dazzling smile.”
Good grief this guy is laying it on thick.
She accepts a slip of paper from him, and I crane my neck to see…a business card?Yikes.As he stalks off I whip around towards the back counter, flipping switches on the espresso machine. The whirring sounds are a monotone comfort as my eyes flit back to my book on owls and I wait for my black coffee to spill into the awaiting mug. The words are a jumbling mess and I have to reread the same sentence three times.
“Like what you see?” A silky voice asks from behind me. I turn, coffee in one hand, my owl book in the other. Hoot stands there with her arms crossed, smirking at me from the other side of the coffee bar.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I offer as nonchalantly as possible, taking a sip of coffee and pretending to read my book.
“Oh please, I felt your eyes like lasers drilling holes into Tyler’s head.”
“Burr holes are nothing to joke about. Didn’t you watchGrey’s Anatomy?” I ask in mock concern.
“Ha. In that case you’d need a drill at close range, intern.” She smirks.
“So you have seen it.”
“A drill at close range? No, unfortunately I have not. I’ll add it to my bucket list. Coffee?” she asks, eyeing my cup.
“I thought you were a tea person?” I question her, but move to make a coffee anyway.
Hoot smiles, an amusing thought crossing her mind that I’m not privy to. “Only after I’ve had several coffees. Tea is my heartwarming drink, coffee is my addiction,” She moves to toss Tyler’s business card in the trash. I catch her eye with a raised brow in question and she flips the card so that I can read it.
Tyler McLaughen??
Cryptocurrency Guru & Entrepreneur
She tosses it in the trash without a second glance.
“Can’t argue with that. How would you like it?” I ask readying a marker and a napkin.
“Two cream, two sugar, please and thank you,” she says.
“Okay, and a name?” I ask, glancing up catching her stare on my forearms. My tongue runs along the inside of my cheek as I try not to grin.
“I believe that’s called a ‘double double’,” she quips, feigning ignorance.
I tilt my head and continue to stare at her.
“Okay, fine, Celeste. My name is Celeste.” She holds her hand out as if we were truly meeting for the first time, in a real conversation and not just idle chit chat waiting for a coffee order. I offer her a small half smile, taking her hand in mine. Her skin is smooth and soft in mine. I restrain myself from running my thumb over her delicate fingers.
“I’m Dominic Miller. Nice to meet you, Celeste.”
“Likewise, Dominic.”
* * *
The recipe I’m cooking from insists on using chestnut flour, and although it mentions that regular flourwill do,the chestnut flour will enhance the dish and add a nuttiness to the gnocchi. It took me three days and four phone calls to suppliers to get the right flour delivered to Remington Hills, unwilling to venture out of our small university town myself. Not to mention the rest of the ingredients. But flavour is flavour.
My oven dings, the timer for the potatoes and squash chirping their readiness. I pull on oven mitts and gingerly ease it out of the oven, placing it on top of the stove to cool. I turn to the opposite counter, trying to even out the hollow well shape I’ve created using the damn chestnut flour.
I busy myself first with scooping out the flesh from the potatoes and squash, mashing them together, then combining them with the flour, eggs, salt, and cheese. My mind is blissfully calm as I move through the motions. The rolling of the dough feels meditative after years of homemade pasta attempts.
It was Maria who had first shown me how to make pasta at home with flour and eggs. A simple method, using ingredients that are usually found at home, and one that most kids will eat. Maria had told me, even at eight years old, that if I wanted to help out and be a leader among the other children she was fostering, making a cozy meal would always soothe the soul and make them feel a little more at home.
I made different kinds of pasta so often some of the other kids that came and went through the system exclusively referred to me as “Noodle.” It didn’t help that I was pre-pubescent and very much looked the part. Nevertheless, I kept at it, sometimes using Maria’s ice cream shoppe during closed hours to roll out dough when I was frustrated over something. Othertimes I’d hand cut pieces when I felt creative. I’d make use of only flour and water when money was tight and Maria couldn’t afford to give me spare eggs. Finally, by the time I was eleven I was making tagliatelle with dough thin enough to read the newspaper through. Pasta was my jam. It was around that time that I had to leave Maria. I was heartbroken, having to leave after finally finding what felt like home. As I cried in her arms, she whispered that she’d never be too far for me to visit or call. Then, from what seemed like out of nowhere, she pulled out a small box. I looked up at her in confusion, wiping my puffy eyes. “It’s a pasta laminator, Dominico.” Maria had explained with warmth, her nickname for me feeling like a hug around my young heart, “You take it with you always, and keep practicing.” I hugged her so hard I thought my bones would break.
I pull from my memories, focusing on slowly adding my gnocchi pieces delicately to the boiling water, sighing as I wait the few minutes it takes for them to rise back up and greet me. I glance to my right where my pasta laminator sits proudly and smile at the memory. It wasn’t the best laminator on the market, not even close. But it was mine. At eleven years old, I didn’t have much to my name, not even a home. But I had that. Of course, I always found my way back to Maria, sometimes in the middle of the night from other foster homes. Then eventually through visits to her ice cream shoppe. I had Maria, my laminator, and a novice skill set that had grown from necessity.
