The Supreme Macaroni Company by Adriana Trigiani Read Free Book Online Page B

asked.
    “Path of least resistance.” Feen shrugged.
    Gianluca and I looked at each other. We were being discussed as though we weren’t there.
    “Or the only path,” Gram said as she stood in the kitchen door, holding a tray of linen napkins that she’d collected from the table. “Love has a funny way of showing up when you aren’t looking for it and didn’t plan on it. I think it’s wonderful.”
    “You would. You always looked out for number one,” Feen said. “But I always admired that in you. You always did what you wanted to do.”
    “And you could have.”
    “That’s a matter of speculation.” Feen smiled.
    “The only time people get in trouble,” Gabriel said, “is when they live their lives for someone else. It never works. You end up living a bitter life that’s not your own. And the very people you gave up everything for never acknowledge all you sacrificed for them.”
    “That was a mouthful, but not the kind I was hoping for.” Aunt Feen frowned at her sister. “Are you going to serve that ricotta cake, or are we saving it?”
    “How do you like it?” Gram asked.
    “Shot of whipped cream.” Feen shrugged. “That should do it.”

3
    T here’s the famous Legoland, known for its plastics, and during the holidays, we Roncallis build our own version, Tupperware Land. After the table is cleared, the dishes are done, the silver is carefully placed into its chamois sleeves, and the piles of shells from the nuts are swept off the tablecloth, we disburse the leftovers in various plastic containers, which are handed out as guests, three to five pounds heavier than when they arrived, depart.
    Our family never leaves a dinner party without providing a full takeout meal to reheat and serve the following day. For the ride home, you can count on our additional to-go snacks: a napkin shaped like a cone and filled with cookies, or a slab of cake in a sheet of tinfoil, or a paper sack filled with dinner rolls, just a little something to tide us over until the next food tsunami.
    I went home with a tray of manicotti to freeze and a bag of biscotti for breakfast. Aunt Feen asked for cannoli, so she got a container of shells dipped in chocolate and nuts, with another snap lid bowl with the extra filling.
    “Are you sure you don’t mind driving Aunt Feen home?” Tess asked, handing me a stack of containers, her bun askew, her lipstick worn off, and her kitchen apron splotched with gravy.
    “I think she already said every mean thing she could think of.”
    “I think you’re right,” Tess said.
    I followed Gianluca and Aunt Feen down Candy Cane Lane. I looked back at my sister. “Go back inside. It’s freezing.”
    Tess went back into the house and joined the remaining family members in the bay window. One of the hallmarks of our family life is that we gather at the door to greet you when you enter and also to say good-bye when it’s time to go.
    My hands were full, so I nodded good-bye with a head bob as Gianluca navigated Aunt Feen into the front seat of his rental car. He reached around her and buckled her seat belt. For a moment, Feen looked like a kid at Coney Island getting strapped into the roller coaster. I climbed in behind the driver’s seat. Gianluca tapped the horn as we turned down the street.
    The delicate scent of fried smelts lingered on our clothing and filled the car. Aunt Feen had been sitting in Tess’s house for hours. Her holiday sweater and wool skirt had picked up the scent of the seven fishes like a sponge.
    “That was nice,” Aunt Feen said.
    Gianluca shot me a look in the rearview.
    “Another Christmas Eve for the history books,” I said.
    “It’s important for families to share holidays,” Gianluca said.
    “You think so? Then where’s your kid?” Aunt Feen asked. “Don’t you have a kid?”
    “A daughter. Orsola. She’s grown up now. She’s in Florence with her husband’s family and my ex-wife and her new husband.”
    “Cozy for a divorced bunch.