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Clank, clutter and clunk go the shiny copper saucepans as they fall out of the cupboard, the sound echoing around the kitchen. The cold water sloshes as it spurts out of the tap, filling the pan half way and soaking the floor, like a waterfall cascading into an endless rocky gorge. The cooking has begun.
Impatient fingers fluster through a cook book, frantically searching for a recipe. An old favourite. The pages are torn and tattered from use, discoloured and rough. Food has been splattered from a previously impatient cook, imbedded, part of the book. There 'Ossobuco,' that's a veal casserole to you and me.
To begin she skins the red, ripe tomatoes. Three hundred and fifty grams. To skin them she places them into a bowl and covers them with boiling hot water. A minute has passed and she drains them. The skin then simply slides off. She then finely chops them with a sharp knife.
Slice.
In a casserole pot, go twenty five grams of butter. It sputters as it melts. Now to chop the onion. The brown skin crunches and crackles as it is ripped off. Roughly she chops and then tosses them into the pot. A single clove of garlic. Skinned. Crushed. Added to the pot. Then left to go golden, ten minutes or so. Once golden they are removed, left to rest.
Twenty five more grams are added to the pot.
The veal is then fried. Slightly browned on each side. It spits as the intense heat breaks the meat down. The white wine, dry, is then added to the pot. Two hundred and seventy five millilitres. Left to bubble and reduce before adding the onion, garlic, tomatoes and puree. The fragrance of the garlic hangs heavily over the kitchen. Like that of the regret of a sinner. Reminiscent of what has happened. Peppercorns are ground with a pestle and mortar. The hot, aromatic smell is released. Rock salt is included to taste. She adds it to the pot. This preparation of foods is left to cook for an hour, infusing their flavours to create a delicate masterpiece.
The lid is removed. Cooked for a further half and hour. It is worth cooking it as slowly as a wet weekend. The meat is tender, and the sauce reduced.
Before this work of art is served she has to make the gremolata. She starts by chopping the garlic, one clove; parsley, two tablespoons; the zest of one small lemon, blended together, finely. This will be used as a seasoning. She boils some rice, plain, to accompany her veal. Finally her masterpiece is set to be served. Four plates. Four people. For dinner.
'Dinner's ready,' calls Mother out of the kitchen.
The dinner table is made from thick oak. It has an intricate design running along the ridge of it. The chairs are also made of wood. A masterpiece in themselves, with complicated twists and elaborate designs, almost royal. Thick vine like roots run up the legs of the chairs. Father sat at the head of the table with mother opposite; my sister's opposite me.
Worst part of the day. All I felt were eyes prying over me. I knew they weren't. I look at the plate of food. Seems like a mountain. Me eating this meal is as likely as not. I pick up the silverware. Fork in my left hand, knife in the right. I begin cutting the veal into tiny pieces. Pushing the rice around my plate. I look up at my sister who is shovelling in her food. Needless to say she enjoys that meal, nearly as much as her chin does. The third chin at least. She is such a vulgar human being. As thick as a brick I'd say to her. Double meaning of course. I put a tiny amount of rice on my fork and raise it to my mouth. Pretending to eat and dropping it back on my plate. Don't want to end up like my sister. Abundant in fat. No, no I do not, not in deed. I manage to eat a quarter of my veal. My stomach feels like a balloon. As fat as a pig. That's all that runs through my mind. I can not handle it at all. I ask to be excused from the table.
I ran straight into the toilet. The white seat looks at me; it is like a mouth waiting to receive what I have to give. It takes me a while to come to what I am about to do. It has to come out. No way will I get fat, not like her. Not in a hundred years, not in billion. I kneel down to the toilet, my stomach retching as I begin to feel sick. The fear has past and all I have in mind is to get it out. I do it. I manage to do it. My fingers go down my throat. Sick races through me, filling up my throat, heavy on my chest; when at last it comes to its destination, flying out of my mouth. I have to flush the toilet to drown out the revolting sound. Once, twice and thrice. No more to come out. My stomach now tingles. I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Fresh and minty toothpaste, I grab the tube and squeeze it tight, forcing out its white toothpaste. Brushing back and forth, right to the back of my mouth, getting rid of any evidence. The mouthwash does the rest of the work. Freshening my breath with a cool mint. It burns slightly in my mouth as the alcohol in it swashes around, filling all the unreachable crevasses. I gurgle it and spit it all out, washing it down the sink.
I return to the dinning room and sit down at the table. I reach forward to drink my water. It is still cold, the amazing reality of ice. I help mother clean the dishes. The fragrant washing up liquid covers the disgusting smell of food lingering in the air. A mountain of bubbles fills the washing up bowl. I have the chore of drying up.
Four dishes.
Four meals.
For three people.