“Maybe. Who knows if I can figure out how to cook.”
“I think I can help with that.” Standing, I walk to Luca’s recipe box and set it on the table in front of him.
“What’s this?” He lifts the hinged lid of the little plastic box.
“You and your aunt took a cooking class together when you were in grade school. I think it was a way to help you learn English.”
He laughs, holding up an index card decorated with stickers. “That would explain the Ninja Turtles.” His eyes are wide as he carefully sorts through the worn index cards, folded magazine pages, and handwritten notes. Some of them have to be decades old. “Cinnamon meltaways, snickerdoodles, pizza twists. Definitely American cooking.” But then he unfolds a sheet of yellowed notebook paper, the edges stained with what I assume is butter. “Is this my aunt’s handwriting?”
He turns it toward me, a recipe for short-rib ragù, written in a loopy cursive familiar from so many Christmas and birthday cards. “Yournonna’s,” I correct. “But your family loved that you mastered it.” I tilt my head, watching him. “Do you have any desire to call them?”
“My parents? How often do I talk to them?”
“You usually call them maybe once a month. Your sisters, usually weekly or every other week.”
“Icallthem, huh?” He slides his gaze to me, giving me a sardonic smile.
I nod, wincing at this truth… although there’s a part of me that loves this amnesiac Luca, in whom it isn’t ingrained to forgive his parents’ flakiness. You might think that losing my parents would mean I’d encourage him to make a relationship—any relationship—work with his, but I’ve seen how dismissive they can be, and how he feels after visits. It’s rarely good for him.
Protectiveness flares in my rib cage. “You’re a really good son,” I tell him. “They don’t deserve you, but they’re lucky to have you.”
You don’t deserve him, either, a shadow voice reminds me.And you’re also lucky to have him. He shouldn’t forgive you, either, unless you deserve it.
“I think I’ll wait for a bit,” he says. “Maybe until I know myself a little more.” Frowning, he studies the paper in his hand. Slowly, his face relaxes. “Wait. I know this,” he says.
“Like you remember it?”
“Not exactly, but I’ve made it before. I think I could even do it without the recipe.”
“You think so? That would beawesome.”
While he goes over the recipe again, I grab a notebook from a drawer and scribble down a note to tell Annie later.
“Do we have a Dutch oven?” he asks.
“Is that a kind of pot?” I ask, moving back to the kitchen.
He laughs. “Yes.”
“I think we do?” I should know this.
Luca joins me to look. Almost on instinct, he opens the lower cabinet door next to the stove, and there it is. “Good guess,” he says, lifting it to the counter. “I wonder if we have everything.”
We hadn’t planned for him to make this, but luckily, he finds almost everything he needs. There’s tomato paste and olive oil in the pantry, tomatoes and onions from our garden in a bowl on the counter, fresh garlic he’d blended and stored in Ziploc bags, and a package of short ribs, a ball of homemade pasta dough, and a Parmesan rind in the freezer. My contribution is the red wine from the bar, from which he measures out what he needs for the recipe, saving the rest for us to have tonight, and a soundtrack of some of his favorite songs.
I’ve watched him cook for the entirety of our marriage, but there’s something fascinating about seeing him do it now, entirely from instinct. I defrost the ribs while he chops. Luca sautés vegetables while I play with Honey. I watch with hearts in my eyes as he sears the meat, carefully scraping up every delicious brown bit as he deglazes the pan.
I was right. The scientist in me is fascinated witnessing his implicit memory kicking in. The wife in me is smitten and proud, relieved and scared and obsessed with everything he does. And wildly in love. That, too.
Luca barely looks at the recipe. He tastes and adds salt; another taste and he reaches for more wine. I can see how comfortable he is, how easily he moves around the kitchen. He’s confident and happy, humming to himself as he stirs, or pretending to crowd me when he needs something overhead.
I can’t let myself think of how many nights I worked late and missed this, because I know it won’t happen again. Whatever the future brings, my days of prioritizing my job over my marriage are done.
I’m drying the last of the dishes when Luca sets the timer, tellingme it won’t be ready for hours. “Now what?” I ask, awaiting further instruction.
“Now we wait.” Luca tosses a dish towel over his shoulder and uses it to wipe his hands. It shouldn’t be sexy, but the man just threw together what’s probably a five-star meal from scratch, and it’s not even noon. I’m pretty sure he’s never been hotter. His tight T-shirt isn’t hurting, either.
Honey’s tail gives a thump where she’s stretched out on the rug, enjoying the breeze coming in through the open back door. I sit down next to her to smother her in love.
