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Yaya cackled. “Relax, cara.” She leaned closer. “Have you seen enough?”
Isabella looked longingly at the chefs and Yaya laughed again.
“Apparently not. I’ll join you then.”
She took a seat beside Isabella, the younger woman resisting the temptation to help Yaya onto the stool. Her intuition told her the assistance would be unwelcome. A moment later, two glasses of mulled wine appeared.
“My favourite,” Yaya explained.
Isabella dutifully sipped. It was, of course, delicious. Christel was watching expectantly; Isabella smiled her approval at both women.
“Why do you cook?”
The question surprised Isabella. Not because it was strange, necessarily, but because it was one she’d never been asked before. People asked how she got into it, or when she started the blog, but the specificity and contradictory vagueness of ‘why’ she cooked was new.
“I guess because I can’t not,” she said after a beat. Then she shrugged. “My adoptive mum was a great cook. It reminds me of her.”
“She’s not here?”
Isabella shook her head. “She died when I was eight.”
“I’m sorry.”
Isabella knew Yaya understood. Even if Gabe hadn’t told her about Yaya’s own losses, she felt the other woman’s compassion and affinity with Isabella’s circumstance.
“Cooking can make us feel close to people. And places.” Yaya took a sip of her wine, pausing while she savoured the warmth and flavour. “Many of my favourite recipes are Greek, because they remind me of my own childhood.”
“Like what?”
“Pasticcio, strapatsada, baklava, spanakopita.”
“I love Pasticcio,” Isabella enthused.
“Mine is the best. I will make it for you one time.”
Isabella’s heart almost cracked apart in a sudden, desperate burst of anguish. That wouldn’t happen. This was all temporary – an illusion. She was here in this beautiful home being welcomed by this unique, down to earth family, but when Gabe took her away, it would be final.
Her smile was noncommittal. “Gabe cooked only Italian dishes for me,” she said.
“I’m not surprised. For my part, I prefer Greek recipes, but Gianfelice, my husband, their grandfather, was a proud Italian male. He thought everything his mother did was the best.” Yaya rolled her eyes, but with obvious affection. “I learned her ways, though changed them enough over time.” She winked. “My revenge.”
Isabella couldn’t help a small laugh. “The way of all good cooks is to put their mark on a dish so that it’s unique yet familiar.”
“Exactly.” She sipped her drink. “I often think people are a little like this, like recipes.”
“Oh?”
“Look at my boys. All the same ingredients, but each so different.”
Isabella nodded.
“You cannot tell what you are getting at the start, and many things can happen that change how a person turns out. We hope that between good biology and upbringing we can succeed in creating a happy, well-rounded person, but it is not always so simple.” She looked at Isabella, her eyes deep and probing. “You can include all the ingredients and follow a recipe precisely, but sometimes it doesn’t work out. Other times it does.” She shrugged. “It’s a mystery.”
“That’s true,” Isabella murmured. “Your family is lovely.”
“My grandchildren are,” she agreed.
Isabella understood the sadness underscoring Yaya’s admission – she felt the incompleteness of the woman’s ‘family’. Her own children were absent. Two sons exiled, and a daughter lost to pride first and ultimately illness.
