Four Times Blessed

Four Times Blessed

  By Alexa Liguori

  Published by Alexa Liguori

  Copyright © 2013 Alexa Liguori

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781301100859

  I’d like to dedicate this book

  to my family

  Chapter 1

  “Now, honey, you watch the onions while I go get the magic.”

  “Ok, zizi.”

  “Don’t let them char, now. Hey…hey. You listening to me?”

  “Yes, zizi, I hear you, I’m standing right here. There is no char. Where do you see the char?”

  “There is none, I was just telling you, sweetheart. You’re doing a very good job. Isn’t she, Camillo?”

  “Huh?” My brother pops his head up from behind a pile of potatoes, round eyes snapping to our aunt. That is, until one, then two of the potatoes, go tumbling. He puts his arms around the pile like he’s going to hug it or something, and the whole thing rumbles to the floor.

  He says a short swear.

  “Hey. None of that, my boy. Old lady ears are delicate, you know. Have some consideration for your poor old auntie. Besides, you have to peel those anyways, so just don’t tell anyone and it’s fine,” she shrugs and waves a hand.

  Then she starts talking to herself about herbs and salt, just enough to cover up the sound of my brother grumbling at each potato as he jams it back in the bucket.

  “There’s a few by the window, Milo honey.”

  “I got it, Zizi.”

  I keep my eyes on my pot of onions. I also admire my ability to keep a straight face. Because really. I clear my throat.

  One of the larger potatoes drops off the table, again, and lands with a thump, right on my brother’s pale foot.

  “Milo!”

  “What?” his voice breaks as he staggers around on one leg. I wish he’d put the knife down.

  “Do not be cursing the potatoes. What did they ever do to you, huh?”

  I decide to chance it, and glance up for just a second. I see Milo glowering at both the dusty spud and dusty foot that fill either of his fists. He catches me looking, wobbles, and grins. I giggle.

  “Hush, Crusa baby. Leave your brother alone. He didn’t mean to. Now, come here. Come on now, right over here. Good. Now. Let me teach you something. Do you know that sometimes we like the char on the onions?”

  “Yes, you said that before.”

  “Yes, I did. Now, you char when you make the cut up potatoes with basil and oregano in the summertime. Very simple, very delicious. You remember when I’ve made that?”

  “Yes.” I move to her other side so her stirring arm doesn’t keep nudging me in the stomach. “I really like them.”

  “I do, too. For those, you want as much char as you can get because that’s what makes it. That’s their magic, you know that. Smaller you cut up those potatoes and onions, the more char you be able to get. That’s why I cut those so small. It’s a pain with these knives, of course. I swear, I don’t have a decent sharp knife in this entire house.”

  “Mm,” I say. Because it’s true, she doesn’t. She does have a wickedly sharp cheese grater, though, which I’ve told her she isn’t allowed to use anymore. Last night, I spotted it out and actually had to snatch it out from under her fingers and run clear across the meetinghall with it. Of course, I didn’t think to take the actual cheese with me. My zizi has a good arm.

  “But for this here, for this we want the onions clear. No char, see? When they’re clear, they’re sweet. You want something soft and sweet in a chowder, you don’t want bitter for this.”

  “Zizi, Zizi, I got it. Go ahead and bring up the chowder magic, these are so done.”

  “Let me see that, my silly girl. They can’t be so done, what is that? That’s impossible, you know that? When you’re making onions clear, they’re never so done, like you say. The longer you leave them on, the better they get. You should remember that. It’s one of my secrets. A little sweet onion makes things taste good. Don’t ever make sauce without making clear onions first. Please. Don’t ever do that.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And make sure your cousins don’t, either. In fact, don’t let them make the red sauce when I’m dead. You tell them I said so. I don’t care, I’ll be dead,” she laughs. I scrunch my nose, and look up to the rafters.

  My zizi casts a glance over her shoulder to see if anyone’s happened to wander into the meetinghall. Satisfied they haven’t, she gives me a tiny little smile. “And your brother is dangerous in the kitchen. You see him over there? Santa Maria, never let him in here alone.”

  My poor brother Camillo, who’s right now chopping up the potatoes with our aunt’s meat cleaver, hacks and grunts. I believe the two noises might have the same fundamental frequency.

  I bow over the steamy pot so he won’t catch sight of my face. My aunt cackles and kisses me on the head, conveniently getting a better view of the onions and what I swear honest to God is not one speck of char.

  Of course, our zizi commented on Camillo’s choice of blade right at the start. She dragged that whole bucket of scrubbed up potatoes across the hardwood and right up to his feet, all while telling him, “that knife is meant for butchering meat. What do you think you need that for? These aren’t meat, these are potat’s. You cut them with a smaller knife or you cut your fingers off. Is that what you want? To cut your fingers off? That’s what it seems like. Why do you want to do that, huh? Tell me why you want to have no fingers.”

  So my brother said, “There’s too many of them. I need a big knife.”

  So our aunt said, “You don’t need a big knife. These potat’s are the same size as every potat’. Look at them. These are puny little potat’s. And you want to cut them up with a butcher knife. Why d’you want to do that?”

  They went on and on, but because my brother is my brother, it ended with, “Zizi. How’m I supposed to chop up a million potatoes with a butter knife?”

  “Fine, fine, then. But don’t chop your fingers off. Honestly, can you believe your brother?”

  I wasn’t really sure how to respond.

  “Now, your cousin Eleni, she’s not here so I can say this to you because you would never say anything. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a smart girl. She could be a good cook. But she worries me in the kitchen. She forgets too easy, that girl,” my zizi mutters out of a corner of her mouth.

  “Are you guys talking about me?” asks Milo.

  “No, dear.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “We’re not, are we Crusa?”

  “Nope. We’re talking about the secret ingredient. Zizi’s going to get the magic now.” I hope. My feet hurt and I have homework I should’ve done yesterday.

  “Yes, I am. And Crusa honey, remember about the onions. Just let them sit there and don’t let them burn.”

  “I got it, Zizi!”

  “Alright, alright. Honestly, you two…”

  My brother rolls his eyes while our zizi tromps down the basement stairs and I give him the appropriate sisterly response.

  “Ungrateful,” we hear descending the rough staircase. “The boy swears with his mouth, never thinking of his auntie’s delicate old ears. And the girl is so snappy. Ay, Madonna, why don’t they be nicer to me, huh? I don’t know why these children are so hard on me.”

  Her voice raises as she clanks around on some shelf. “I do everything but birth them out of my own self, and still they want to chop up potat’s with a meat knife. A meat knife! Santa Lucia…”

  I hear her, then, praying for us, for her own sanity, for all those who aren’t fortunate enough to have someone like her, and for all of our fingers.

  “How are the onions?” she says, taking the landing slightly breath
less. Maybe from exertion or excitement, I can’t tell. She pokes her head over my shoulder, so close it tickles.

  “Kind of…smushy.”

  I poke at them. My zizi takes the spoon and I slide over. Lucky for me, she’s got a spine like a fishhook so I can still see well enough if I twist her soft bushy curls aside.

  “Ask your brother to come over.”

  I call to Milo to come here, Zizi wants him.

  He takes up a position on the other side of our aunt, who’s now inspecting the onions like old Buddy with his new bone. I watched him from the window all last night, as he danced with it out on the green, making sure it was good and dead.

  “Very good. See, this means they’re sweet. That’s what we want. This is the clear chowder, kids. This is what we make. Over there,” she waves her hand left, which is actually north, but I’m pretty sure she means west, “They make it with tomato.

  “I don’t know why they do that. Why do you want to add tomato to good chowder, make it drippy and sour.” She puckers her lips. Milo and I shake our heads, peering down into the pot.

  “Give you aggita. That makes no sense. Why d’you want aggita? Nobody wants aggita. They’re crazy.

  “You want tomato and clam together, ok. You make a nice red sauce and put it over long pasta. Always long, with the clams. And for goodness sake, leave the shells on, don’t go shucking them off if you put them over spaghett’s. That just looks weird.”

  I suppose it does. Milo must think the same because he grunts. I wonder if his jaw is sore. There’s a purple shadow all along one corner, green tendrils reaching for his ear.

  “You can also do a little oil or butter with some garlic maybe, but nobody in this family likes too much garlic, so we make the red sauce. And for clams, or mussels too, or any shellfish are good, really, in the red sauce. You make it very tomato-y. Not thin watery drippy and clam all together. That’s disgusting.

  “Now, up in Boston-area,” here she flicks a limp onion off the spoon and it slaps onto the wall. I make a note to wipe it up before it dehydrates.

  “There, they make the chowder similar to what we do here but with cream. That tastes good, but it’s too heavy for me. You might like it, I don’t know. But I think this one is better. You make that Boston one in the winter, and people will like it. Put it with some bread, and there you go. A nice supper. Just don’t put it out on Christmas Eve. People like it then because like I said it’s very nice so everybody’s got to try it, but soon they eat all that cream and nobody wants to eat the rest of the food. That’s no good.

  “You have to leave lots of room in your stomach for Christmas Eve food, do you know that? Because that day all the fishes are so good, why do you want to go and eat all that cream? Makes no sense. Eat the fishes, kids, on Christmas Eve. That’s what we do. And then eat the cream on Christmas the next day, in the pastry. Cream is delicious in pastry.”

  At this point, the onions are a glassy, mushy ooze about one thumb deep in the bottom of the pot. And we still haven’t added the magic.

  Sweet Lord.

  “Zizi, when do you add the broth?” I say in a voice that at any other time with any other people I’m sure would have them rolling their eyes.

  “You add in the broth now, my sweet girl. Here, you watch me and then I let you pour in the next one.”

  She takes a jar and sloshes the cloudy broth with a cglug-cglug-cglug into her big pot. It hits and right away there’s steam and hissing. It covers my face and, great grandmothers, if it doesn’t smell absolutely wonderful.

  “Here, you smell this first. This is the magic. I make it myself, you see me when I do. I bet you could even make it.” She stuffs the rim of the jar under my nose and then Milo’s while she stirring up the onions ever so gently. Someone makes a face when it’s his turn to smell the magic.

  I, meanwhile, am focusing intently on the onions. Now swimming in little wisps in the cloudy stew. I cough a little. Straight out of the jar, magic is very…clammy.

  “So, there it is. Now you just have to let it all come together. That’s the other secret. You let it come to bubbling, and then you can toss in the potatoes and carrots.”