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“You need to learn to cook if you’re going to be married,” Ma says, pointing at me with a wooden spoon she’s pulled out of a drawer.
“Dom’s a great cook. He can be the chef in our marriage.” I slide onto the breakfast stool. I’m not resorting to the typical nineteen-fifties housewife role.
“But he took off work to help us. Your parents. You need to thank him.” Ma’s eyes beg me not to embarrass her in front of my new mother-in-law.
And with an Italian mama comes guilt, so I slide off the stool and round the island.
Anna pulls three aprons from her bag. “Step one, you do not get dirty.” She puts an apron over my head and spins me by placing her hands on my hips before tying it in the back.
I look down to see what my apron says, and I shake my head with a chuckle. “Kiss me, I’m Italian” with the Italian flag underneath.
“You can both wear it.” Anna beams. “Here, Giada.”
I tie Ma’s apron that reads, “I’m the sauce boss.”
Lastly, Anna puts on hers, and Ma ties the back. “Your opinion wasn’t in the recipe” is faded on the front and there are a few stains, which means she bought aprons for Ma and me, but hers is one of her own. It’s a sweet gesture, and the hug Ma gives her conveys how much she loves this. She’s had friendships, but she wants family. Always has.
“Now.” Anna spins me toward the sink. “We wash hands. Hot water and soap.”
I’m slightly offended she didn’t think I knew that much, but I keep my reaction in check. We wash our hands and dry them with paper towels after she scolds me for using the dishtowel because it’s “not sanitary.” I nod and throw away my paper towel, feeling all kinds of uncomfortable and incompetent.
“When will Dom be home?” Anna asks.
I look at Ma as if I’m ten and someone asked me a question I have no answer for. She waits—because this is the kind of information a wife should know.
“He usually comes home later,” I say, which appeases Anna. She’s familiar with her son’s obsessive work hours.
“He’ll be so happy when you present him this meal.” She shares a smile with Ma as though if the two of them could rule the world, they’d match up all good Italian singles. “I got these ready beforehand. They’re just cool enough. But next time, you just bake the potato.” Anna holds out a few baked potatoes. “You know how to use the oven, right?”
Ma eyes me like “don’t embarrass me because I never taught you to cook.” Blanca can probably make the seven fish meal for Christmas Eve and I can’t boil water. Italian mamas teach their daughters, but my mother was too busy when I was growing up.
“Of course she does,” Ma says.
I’ve heated pizzas. Hello, I have a son to feed. Although there were a lot of Lunchables and takeout through the years.
“Okay, ‘cause Blanca acts like I handed her a map and told her to get me to California when I to cook with her. She’s lost from the time I say go. The boys know more than her, which isn’t much. Except for my Dominic.”
I laugh, and my anxiety lessens now that I know she might not have as high expectations as I thought. Ma smiles too, now that she doesn’t feel bad for having a daughter who can’t cook.
As Anna is instructing me how to scoop the potatoes out of the skin, the key in the door alerts us to Dom’s imminent arrival. They both look at me for an answer as to why Dom is home when I said he’d be home later. All of our heads shift toward the microwave clock at the same time. It’s four-thirty. He shouldn’t be home.
But the door slowly opens, and Dom stands there, staring at us in bewilderment. His tie is loose but still knotted around his neck. Other than that, he’s just Dom. Put-together and gorgeous with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He places his keys into the dish and his bag on the chair.
“Hello, everyone,” he says, toeing out of his shoes. “Ma.” He walks into the kitchen and kisses her cheek. “Mrs. Cavallo.” He hugs her and kisses both cheeks.
The two of us stand there because to show our mas we’re trying, he should kiss me hello, but he just stands there.
“Hey, babe,” he finally says and hugs me, kissing the side of my neck.
I slide into his large frame with the same ease I always have, and I find it as warm, welcoming, and safe as it’s always been. But he steps back quickly, inspecting the counter.
“Gnocchi. I love you.” He smiles at Anna.
“Valentina is going to prepare the meal,” Ma says with a huge smile.
Dom places his arm around my waist, pulling me into his side. “Really? I’d like to see this. The other day she changed the clock time on the oven because she couldn’t figure out how to turn it on.” He chuckles, as do our mothers.
I swat his stomach. “You have these fancy appliances, that’s why.”
