“Well, I suppose we all can stock up on Bounty and Tide now.” She went and broke the spell. Gina just had to burst my bubble. To Gina, the glass wasn't half-full or half-empty. It was just water in a glass. But her straight-forward way of thinking made her a practical balance to my occasional fleets of fancy. Also, Gina knew her culinary dreams were not to come true here. And of course, as usual, she was right. The sterility of my local grocery store made Bounty and Tide alarmingly appropriate choices. And after having to deal with Leon, our foul grocery clerk, I was feeling a bit dirty, and not in the good way.
So, just as I was about to resign myself to a bulk purchase of cake flour, non-stick aluminum foil and several 12-packs of TaB® cola, Katie announced, “I don’t know about you two, but I’m buying MEAT! Let’s go!”
Gina just looked at me, shrugged her shoulders and we followed our feisty new companion as she bounded towards butcher’s counter.
“Excuse me sir, do you have a rack of lamb? And if you do, can I get it Frenched. And could you remove the meat, fat and membranes that connect the individual rib bones? I’ll wait. Thank you!”
Katie may not have known a great deal about cheese, but it was obvious that girl knew meat! With Gina’s dairy addiction and my pastry obsession, Katie fit right in. It was if she was sent from above to complement our culinary lives. Besides the lamb, she ordered two Filet Mignon and an enormous rack of baby back ribs and, with her arms full of butcher paper-wrapped treasures, she turned towards us and said, “I’m sorry, I never introduced myself. My name’s Katie.”
“I’m Gina.”
“Terry here.”
The introductions almost seemed odd because it felt as if we had known Katie forever.
“Now, are you two Italian? I heard the two of you talking”
I could feel Gina looking at me and smirking, “Wipe that smile off your face.” She said.
Gina knew I loved it when people thought I was Italian. She grew up speaking Italian and I could manage fairly well with the language, but not like Gina. She had a way of combining lingual elegance with just the right amount of cultural vulgarity as only a true Italian could do. I knew enough to know that it was best if I continued to speak my linguistically proper, if not a bit too grammatically rigid, Italian. It allowed me to be looked upon with respect by Italians and retain what little dignity I had.
“We really need to get together. Do you like pasta? We’re making some next week and having a big pasta party. Would you like to come?” I asked.
Katie looked puzzled, “You mean like, make it make it?”
“Yeah. I like, make it all the time.”
“Wow, you really are Italian!”
I was beaming. And Gina just smiled.
To be continued……………
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