“Stop when it looks like something between sauce and stew,” Dorian said.
He washed his hands at the sink, then nodded for Annie to do the same. Together, they reached into the bowl and crushed the tomatoes between their fingers. Annie made a face at first, then laughed as one burst and spattered the counter.
My chest ached at the sight of them working together as if they’d been doing it for years. I had a sudden memory of Jon making pancakes on a Sunday morning. Annie had been perched on a stool, her hair in pigtails, asking Daddy to make one that looked like a bunny.
“Why is it called cacciatore?” Annie asked. “Is that a person?”
“Not a person,” Dorian said. “A style. Cacciatore means hunter.”
“So this is hunter’s chicken?” Annie asked.
“Basically. The idea was that hunters came home with whatever they’d managed to get—rabbit, bird, sometimes chicken later on—and someone cooked it with what was around. Wine. Garlic. Herbs. Mushrooms if they’d found any. Tomatoes, depending on the region and the century.”
Annie glanced at the can on the counter. “Depending on the century?”
“Tomatoes weren’t always part of Italian cooking. Which sounds impossible, but it’s true.”
“How do you know all this?” Annie asked.
“I’m old. And I own a bookstore. You can learn about anything if you can find the right book.”
Annie laughed. “You’re not old. You’re prematurely gray.”
“It’s very attractive,” I blurted out.
“Yeah?” Dorian asked, glancing at me, his eyes glittering under the pendant lights.
“Yeah,” I said, leaving it at that, as heat flooded my cheeks.
“So the oldest versions were probably simpler,” Dorian said, continuing the cooking lesson. “Meat, herbs, wine. Maybe vinegar. Maybe olives. The red sauce version is the one most of us think of now, especially here. But in Italy, everyone’s grandmother has a different version, and all of them are convinced the others make it wrong.”
Annie leaned closer to the pan. “Did your mom think hers was the real one?”
“For sure. She got it from her grandmother, who had come directly from Italy.”
“I didn’t know you were Italian,” I said. “How’d you get those blue eyes?”
“Apparently from my dad,” Dorian said. “He was of German descent.”
“And you never knew him?” Annie asked.
“No, he died when I was a baby,” Dorian said. “Car accident.”
“And your mom never remarried?” Annie asked.
“No, she never did.” Dorian added the crushed tomatoes to the pan, then oregano, thyme, a bay leaf, and a pinch of red pepper flakes. “Not too much heat. Just enough to give it a little zest.”
“Do you know why she never married again?” Annie asked.
“She said she never met anyone she liked enough to contemplate growing old with them,” Dorian said.
“Do you think that’s true?” Annie asked. “Or was she just afraid?”
“I’m not sure. I never thought to ask her,” Dorian said. “Unlike you and your friends, I was too self-centered as a teen to think about what she might have wanted. Or wished for.”
“I am still at a loss as to what possessed you five to put us on the app,” I said.
“You know why,” Annie said, her voice with a slight edge to it. “And we were right.”
