It’s hard to say, really, when happenstance comes along.
Marisa, if asked to be brutally honest, would say that it was flotsam, something floating past when she felt she was in a shipwreck and she had grabbed at it, desperately trying to keep her head above the waves.
Polly, being of a more optimistic disposition, would put it down to serendipity. Regardless, when she lightly knocked on the door of the little yellow house when the twins were at their lessons, she wasn’t at all prepared for Marisa in the kitchen.
“Oh,” she said. “What are you making?”
Marisa had just added a thin stream of milk to the bowl.
“Just crespelle,” she said. She had laid out nutmeg for the bechamel and was trying to dry the spinach, not entirely successfully.
“Spinach is the wettest thing in the world,” she complained.
“I know,” said Polly. “They should feed it to camels. Did Reuben not leave you a salad spinner?”
“I think I’m pretty committed to paper towels.”
Polly smiled. “So, what even is it?”
“Well, I make . . . they’re like little pancakes really. Then you stir the spinach into the sauce . . . my grandfather used to let me do it. The colors blend just so beautifully, it’s like magic. Then you add lots and lots and lots of pecorino. And then some more. And too much pepper also. And probably some prosciutto if you’ve got some kicking about. And you fold it over and pour more sauce on top and stick it in the oven until it’s all bubbling and delicious.
“Oh my God,” said Polly. “That sounds amazing. You’re making me hungry.”
She thought for a moment.
“Does it make children eat spinach?”
Marisa shrugged. “Italian children already eat spinach.”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” said Polly, watching her, a thought growing in her head.
“I don’t suppose they’d scale up?” she said, watching Marisa whisk her bechamel neatly.
“What do you mean?”
Polly frowned. “Just a thought I had. Can you show me?”
Marisa shrugged again—she still wasn’t very used to having people around—and heated up the pan to cook the first one.
The spinach swirled into the bechamel sauce was like marbling, the bright green against the creaminess, and hypnotic to watch.
“Wow,” said Polly, then she smiled apologetically. “I don’t get out much.”
“Neither do I,” said Marisa and Polly jumped back in horror. “Oh God, sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s all right,” said Marisa, smiling to show she wasn’t really hurt, although it stung a little bit. But that was hardly Polly’s fault.
The butter sizzled in the pan as she started to turn the crespelles.
“You seem to be making a lot,” observed Polly. “Are they all for you?”
Marisa flushed bright red. “Um, sometimes I feed my neighbor,” she said.
“No wonder takings are down,” grumbled Polly. “You get all your provisions sent in from Italy and now you’re taking my clients.”
Deftly Marisa lined up the crespelle, lined them with a thin layer of the lightest most beautiful Emilia-Romagna prosciutto that made Polly’s mouth water just to smell it, filled them with a layer of the bechamel, then flipped them and poured more in the top, popping them into the oven to bake. Next door there was some dramatic banging of something which may or may not have been related to William Tell. Polly glanced at her watch.
“Um . . .”
“About fifteen minutes?” said Marisa. “Tea?”
Polly smiled gratefully.
I wonder, she thought, as she left finally, collecting the cheerful children. I wonder if I could get that girl to help me cook for the poshos? She wasn’t usually quite so mercenary, but this was something else. She told the children about it. They looked immediately dubious.
“So it is green,” said Avery.
“So it’s not pizza,” said Daisy.
“Well, thanks, my market research council,” said Polly, taking a hand each and letting them swing and bounce off her all the way down the road, blown by the wind behind them and their loud singing, all the way back to the lighthouse.