Dorian gestured toward her piles of the sliced onions and peppers. “Go ahead and add those. But be careful not to do it too fast or the oil could pop and burn you.”
Annie did as he told her. The vegetables hit the pan with a sharp, satisfying hiss. Steam rose at once, fragrant and hot, carrying the sweetness of onion and pepper into the room. Dorian gave her the wooden spoon and stepped back just enough to let her take his place.
“Now stir, but don’t fuss with them too much. Let the onions soften. You want them to turn translucent. The peppers should relax, but not disappear. Mom said a little structure in sauce is good.”
I took a sip of wine, taking in the domestic scene. They were adorable together. Annie seemed to hang on his every word.
“Now the mushrooms?” Annie asked.
“Yes, that’s right.” He passed them to her. “They’ll look like too many, but mushrooms shrink.”
Annie dumped them in, and he showed her how to sprinkle salt over the pan.
“Not too much,” he said. “Just enough to encourage them to give up their juices.”
The mushrooms softened and darkened, shrinking into the onions and peppers. Dorian leaned one hip against the counter beside the stove, arms folded, watching Annie cook instead of taking over.
“Okay, garlic next. Do this part fast. Garlic is delicious, but it turns bitter if you ignore it.”
“Like a good woman,” I said.
“Exactly.” Dorian gave me a look, amused and warm, before turning back to Annie. “Thirty seconds. Stir constantly.”
Annie added the garlic, and immediately the scent bloomed, deep and savory.
“That smells like heaven,” I said.
“Now we dump in the tomato paste.” Dorian dropped a dark red mound into the pan. “Let it cook for a minute or two—until it darkens. That takes away the raw taste.”
Annie pressed it into the vegetables with the back of the spoon. “Like this?”
“Exactly. See how the color’s changing? Brick red. That’s what you want.”
There was something hypnotic about his voice when he explained things. Low, calm, precise, without being condescending.
He poured wine into a measuring cup and handed it to Annie.
“Time to deglaze the pan,” he said.
“Deglazing? Is it hard?” Annie asked.
Dorian smiled. “No, it just means we add the wine in and scrape up everything stuck to the bottom.”
The added ingredient surged and steamed. Dorian showed her how to scrape the bottom with the spoon. The sharp scent of alcohol rose first, then mellowed into something rounder and richer.
“You always let the wine cook down a little,” he said. “Otherwise it tastes too much like alcohol.”
“Is it time for the tomatoes now?” Annie asked.
“Let’s do it.” Dorian opened the can of San Marzano tomatoes and poured them into a wide bowl. They slid out whole and red and luscious, surrounded by thick juice.
“My mother insisted these had to be crushed by hand,” Dorian said.
“Why?” Annie asked.
“Hand-crushed tomatoes give you a richer, looser, more rustic sauce with better texture.”
“Oh, okay. Cool,” Annie said.
