Margherita's Notebook by Elisabetta Flumeri, Gabriella Giacometti Read Free Book Online Page B

and windows barred. The family restaurant. Actually, her mother’s restaurant (where Armando’s job was simply that of PR man, especially with the female tourists). The place had been shut for years, but Margherita always kept the key with her, like a lucky charm.
    She approached the door and opened it. The rusty hinges creaked. Preserved under the thick layer of dust that covered the terra-cotta floor, the stacked tables, and the huge stone fireplace were all her most beautiful memories.
    She entered the kitchen, which had been her favorite place when she was a child. It was there that she’d learned her mother’s culinary secrets. It was there that, little by little, her great passion had been born. It was a sort of game: together they would prepare the food, mixing spices and seasonings as though they were magic concoctions; together they would knead and roll out dough, invent new recipes . . .
    She gently touched the kitchen utensils that were laid out on the marble table as if they were ready for use any minute now. Margherita shut her eyes, trying to bring back the memories. She thought she could hear Erica’s voice again. “Add a pinch of coriander, a little nutmeg, a dusting of pecorino cheese, don’t be afraid to mix the flavors, follow your instinct . . .”
    The insistent vibration of her cell phone interrupted her reverie and brought her back to the real world.
    â€œHey, kiddo,” her father announced. “He’s gone.”
    â€œDid you have a hard time convincing him?”
    â€œYou know me, I can be very persuasive. And after all, it was like playing a home game for me.”
    Margherita could tell from Armando’s voice that he was smiling.
    â€œIt’s better this way,” she answered, relieved. And she meant it.
    Maybe it had been the memories, or maybe it was because making food had always been a lifeline for Margherita, but she felt like doing some cooking.
    I’m going to make something special, she said to herself.
    So she shut the restaurant door behind her and headed into town with a smile on her face.
    Recipes filled her head. She felt inspired and wanted to try something new.
    First stop: the fish market and Gualtiero’s unmistakable voice, who, as soon as he saw her enter his shop, stopped gutting a turbot to come over and say hello.
    â€œMargy, when did you get here? How long are you staying?”
    â€œLonger than you might think. I can’t stand the city anymore!”
    â€œIt was about time! When you’re born here, you die here. Sooner or later even my hotheaded son will figure that one out.”
    Gualtiero’s son’s name was Giovanni. He and Margherita had gone to elementary school together, covering for each other whenever they did something they weren’t supposed to.
    â€œHow is Giovanni?” Margherita asked.
    Gualtiero winked at her.
    â€œToday he’s in Florence. He and Maria made up again.”
    Margherita smiled. Even when they were in school, Giovanni and Maria were always breaking up and making up. Then Maria’s family moved to Florence, and Giovanni started commuting back and forth. This was still going on, just so that they could be together. Whenever he could get away from work, he raced down to see her.
    â€œIt means they love each other. You really should let him go.”
    â€œYou know what I think: reheated soup never tastes any good!”Gualtiero answered with a well-known Tuscan proverb. “But what about you?”
    Margherita, ignoring Gualtiero’s comment, began looking over the fish on the counter: sea bream, sea bass, red mullet, stopping when she saw a squid that was about medium size.
    â€œThat one.” She pointed at it.
    â€œYou haven’t lost your eye for good fish! So fresh it’s still moving its tentacles,” Gualtiero commented as he wrapped it up for her. “What are you making for