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“Thirty-six.”
“Right. Thirty-six. That’s what I said. So who’s here?”
“A girl.”
“A girl? What girl?”
Nonna pointed. “A girl.”
“What does she want?”
“She wants to know if the mozzarella is good.”
“Please…” said the old man, as if that was the dumbest thing anyone had ever said to him.
“What did you tell her?”
“I didn’t tell her anything.”
“Why not?”
“You interrupted me before I could tell her anything.”
“You should let her try it.”
“Try what?”
“The mozzarella. Did you let her try it?”
“How could I let her try it when you’ve kept me busy this whole time asking questions.”
“She looks nice. Let her try it.”
“Of course I’m gonna let her try it.”
Then Nonna reached up and grabbed a half a hunk of mozzarella from a pan up on the counter and cut off a piece. As she sliced through the soft white ball, milk oozed out onto the cutting board and formed a small pool into which the thin slice gently fell. Nonna picked up the piece and passed it over the counter.
The old man went and stood next to the old woman. He slipped his arm gently around her waist like he’d done a thousand times before and pulled her closer. They both waited expectantly as Ant tasted.
“I make it here fresh, every morning,” said the man proudly.
“Oh my God.” The cheese’s warm, creamy lusciousness melted over her tongue. It was mild and supple, sensual and luxurious. If clouds were made out of cheese they would taste like this, she thought. “That is so good,” she said as she swallowed.
Nonna smiled. She knew how good her cheese was. “How about I make you a sandwich sweetie.” There was an abundance of fresh, seeded semolina rolls piled up on the counter. She grabbed one as she spoke. “You like sopressata?”
“Yes.”
“Spicy sopresata?”
“Yes.”
“And roasted peppers?”
“Yes.”
Nonna smiled again. “I make them fresh today with the garlic and the parsley.”
“Yes please,” Ant said again.
