Societal Satire in Shorts

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The Bakery:

      The smell of fresh baked bread gets me every time.  Granted, getting up a 4 AM isn’t ideal, but these aromas are what keep me coming into work before sunrise every day.  Plus, the early start means I only have another hour of work left today.

     Reaching down, I grab another bagel from the pile and cut it in half, the non-traditional way, creating two tubular arcs that resemble oversized elbow macaroni.  I begin slicing one half from an end, 1/8th inch thick rounds, which fall easily at the mercy of my serrated blade.

     These three-day old bagels are being repurposed into chips, an idea I came up with after the local food shelter stopped taking baked goods.  There are only so many crusty baguettes, soggy sponge cakes, and rock-hard dinner rolls, our bakery staff can eat.  Plus, this approach turns a throw-away item into a marketable product for the grocery, with a longer shelf life.  Win-win.  Now where’s my raise?

     Covering the chips with an “everything” bagel spice blend, before baking them to a crisp, elevates these offerings from a simple salad crouton alternative, to a versatile snack.  Adding the strong seasonings provides the additional benefit of allowing me to combine all different types of stale bagels into the mix; though cinnamon raisin and blueberry are still on hold for this savory project.

     My spice combination, which includes both black and white sesame seeds, poppy seeds, onion powder, garlic flake, and liberal amounts of coarse sea salt, is alluring, especially when toasted to open up the bouquet, as a batch currently is, in the large oven behind me.

     Another bagel successfully deconstructed, I look up and spot a child wandering through the bakery section on his own.  This boy reminds me of my son, curious in mind, a valuable trait, though it often leads to distraction.

      The kid is currently strolling through the pasty section, a risky proposition for a boy his age.  The options for sugar intake here are limitless, as our pastry chef apparently strongly favors taste over wellness. 

      Lining the backlight shelves, protected by swinging glass cabinet doors, are doughy twists covered with sticky clear glaze, cinnamon rolls with thick white icing, cupcakes adorned with colorful frosting patterns over an inch thick, eclairs with generous chocolate smears across the top which balances the creamy custard inside, and numerous other sweet tooth indulgences.  We need to keep the diabetics away from this entire area.

     I can probably take a two-minute break to give this boy some guidance.  I enjoy passing off baking tips, and sound eating habits, to the next generation.  Sure, everyone needs to splurge on dessert once in a while, but a dozen donuts may not be the best approach.

     Taking a clean cloth from the countertop, I wipe my hands, then run the towel along the front of my dark-blue apron.  It seems like I always have flour on my outfit, even when I’m not actually mixing dry baking ingredients.  A white uniform would be much more practical for us bakers, but apparently, we need to match the corporate color scheme for this grocery chain.

       I see the kid’s focus has shifted to the cheesecakes, these are flavorful, but about as rich as they come.  And boozy too, though we do put special markings to denote the brandy, Irish cream, or amaretto enriched items.

      “Can I help you?” I suggest, coming alongside the lad.  He’s a little older than my boy, and definitely bigger, but I still see many childish similarities.

      “I’m in charge of dessert for the party tonight.”  Then, after a brief pause, “And my mom said I can’t make a mess in the kitchen.” 

       This second line is delivered somewhat resentfully, but it’s unclear if this is because having to be clean is limiting his recipe options, or because he thinks he’s always tidy in the kitchen.

       I’m going to surmise both.  No mess means no baking, but that’s not a problem.  My eye catches a yellow Bundt cake, baked in the traditional pan, yielding lovely pillowy rolls across the top surface.  Perfect, an elegant, tasty, and reasonably healthy starting point.

      “Do you like chocolate,” I ask the kid, knowing that this is like asking a gambler if they like dice.  Even if I’ve found the rare adolescent who prefers other candy fancies, there’s still a way to entice the subject to play.

      “Yes.”

      How about if you get this vanilla cake, then make some chocolate sauce to put on top.  It will be fun to decorate.

      The boy nods, intrigued.  I’ve got him hooked. 

      Pulling a small pad of paper from the front pouch of my smock, I scribble down two ingredients, the location of each in the store from memory, and some basic cooking instructions, then hand this list to the lad.  This chocolate sauce is dead simple to make, and there’s only one way to screw it up.  I’ve got confidence.

       The boy accepts the paper, then immediately removes a cell phone from his sweatshirt pocket, and snaps a picture of the text.  Apparently, paper, and memory skills, are becoming obsolete amongst this next generation. 

      “You could also add some fresh fruit to the cake,” I offer.  I didn’t put this additional element on the list, not wanting to make the project too ambitious, or his mom unhappy about her kitchen tidiness, but figured I would give this kid the option.

     “Sounds perfect, I was already over there,” the boy calls out as he races off with excited bluster, at a speed which threatens to smash the cake he is carrying against its thin plastic case on any sharp turn.  Not sure if he means the produce section, the freezer aisle, the local berry farm, or something else entirely.

     I get to ponder this odd response for only a second longer before a whiff of roasting sesame seeds hits my nose.  Turning, I race back the kitchen behind the bakery counter.  There’s a delicate balance between toasted and burnt bagel chips. 

The Deli:

        Based on the speed of the lady approaching my counter, she’s got a distinct sense of purpose.  Or urgency.

       From my vantage point, I can see the tops of several brown paper bags, which have the telltale shape and size of wine bottles, peaking out of a shopping bag, which sits next to her leather purse in the upper cart section.  Also, there are two mixed 12-packs of beer on the lower rack of the cart, barely visible through the loose metal cage, where a menagerie of vegetables is strewn across the main compartment.  This woman must be getting ready for a party. 

        It’s been a busy morning, and I need to get some to-go deli tray orders ready pronto.  Maybe I can direct this woman to the pre-sliced meat and cheese selections.  I straighten my hairnet, preparing for the incoming request. 

From the first words out of her mouth, I realize this is not going to be a quick order.

      “I’m looking for a pound of Lorraine swiss, please.”  This woman’s speech is clear, but rushed.  Definitely a sense of urgency.

      Lorraine swiss is not a common item for us here, though I do have some familiarity with the product.  As a third-generation deli worker, there’s not much I haven’t encountered in my travels.  It’s just sad that all the consolidation in the grocery industry, and the closure of mom-and-pop delicatessens, like my grandfather used to run, has led to some of these more novel cheese grades, like lacy swiss, to becoming scarce, or non-existent.

        “I’ll need to look around in the cooler,” I rebut, silently wondering if this delay will change her mind.  No such luck.

        “OK,” she replies smoothly.  Then comes the next rapid volley.  “Is your capicola or soppressata spicier?”

        Let me get you a slice of each to try,” I reply in my most congenial voice, though I’m boiling inside.

       Granted, this is my job.  And the lady seems well versed on her deli products.  But I’ve got order pick-up deadlines to meet.

      Unsleeving each of the requested cured meat products, which are easily accessible in the display case, I use my thin bladed knife to manually cut of a generous helping of each.  No reason to soil the deli slicer yet.  We have two processed soppressata offerings; I opt for the bolder wine aged version, with black pepper crust.  There’s spicy for you.

      “Give me a minute to check on the cheese,” I propose, passing the thin tissue paper, with two slabs of cured meat on it, over to her at shoulder level.  My sense from this woman’s ordering confidence is that I don’t need to identify which is which, one piece being a smaller diameter, comprised of greasy bits of consolidated meat, and the other lighter in color and drier in texture, with the natural marbling of an actual animal.

     Digging around in the cooler underneath the display case, where we keep our more obscure cheeses, I peruse the white colored offerings, which is how we organize this storage space.  I extract three nearly spherical balls of buffalo mozzarella, two rectangular bricks of Wisconsin extra sharp cheddar, and finally a chuck of cheese about the size of those huge new cell phones my grandchildren are taking pictures of me with these days.  The fine holes visible in the cross-section through the saran wrap packaging make the identification easy.  Lorraine swiss.

       It might not be a whole pound, but let’s see what I can do.  Raising from my crouched position, I toss the brick onto the scale.  The digital readout displays “.968”.  Not bad, the plastic covering weight is negligible, and there’s not a butt end on this piece, so the yield should be pretty good.

       As a final check, I undo the packaging and take a good sniff, simultaneously checking the contents for discoloration or spots.  No off aromas, in fact there’s minimal smell whatsoever, besides a subtle nuttiness, and the outer skin of the cheese looks pristine.  The tiny air bubbles in the cross-section, resembling craters on a full moon, are the only blemishes on the cheese’s surface. 

       “We’ve got just under a pound of the Lorraine,” I call out to my customer triumphantly. 

      She’s still munching away on cured meats, taking small nibbles of each, apparently comparing the flavor profiles.  Her non-descript facial expressions do little to reveal which, if either, option, she prefers.

      “Sounds great, I’ll take it all.  Fairly thin, please.”  She follows up, holding up her thumb and forefinger close together, with just a tiny space of air between them.

      There’s not any extra cheese to dial in the thickness, so I just take a guess at the settings.  I’ve been doing this work for 30 years, and the slicing technology hasn’t really changed much over that time, so I have a pretty good handle on the process. 

      Nearing the end of the swiss, I grab a large brick of processed yellow American cheese, our cheapest product, and butt it up against the back end of the Lorraine. 

     Continuing to slide cleanly through the cheese, my fingers now free from the rotating blade, the last white cheese sheet drops onto the deli paper, followed by a sandwiched sliver of white and yellow material.  The whirl of the wheel stops, a sound I still find soothing, even after several decades. 

       Removing the top hybrid piece from the stack, I wrap the lacy swiss squares into a tidy bundle.  The barcode for this product is nowhere to be found on the original packaging, so I just manually enter a price of $6.99 per pound.  A generous rate for a high-end cheese, but that brick may have remained hidden in seclusion, destined to mold and be thrown out, if this request hadn’t been made.  That’s worthy of a discount.

         Passing the packet of cheese over, I inquire about the meat.

        “Capicola, please,” she replies quickly, then follows, “One pound also, sliced as thin as you can make it.”

       Easy.  With the dry texture of the cured capicola pork, and the well bonded outer casing, I can go almost paper thin without this deli meat tearing, or jamming up the machine.

      Less than three minutes later, my patron is headed off with both her packages, of similar size, though the meat bundle contains about twice as many slices as the cheese.

      If she grabs some rustic bread on the way to check-out, she’ll have all the makings for a lovely picnic lunch.  Especially with one of those nice bottles of wine.

The Cashier:

        My next customers in line are a motley trio.  Definite familial relations, and probably covering an age gap of over 60 years.  They’re currently transferring their items onto my black conveyor belt in sporadic fashion, offloading products from the mother’s half full shopping cart, the grandmother’s electric scooter, and the child’s grimy paws. 

       Smirking, I dispense a generous pump of hand lotion, heavily laced with sanitizer, into my palm, rubbing this goo in aggressively.  My hands seem to be permanently chapped these days.  I had dry skin as an teenager, and the 18 months spent in the Middle East didn’t help.  Currently, these fingers are my livelihood, getting plenty of work shuffling all manner of grocery store products across the barcode scanner eight hours a day.

      This job has been a great help for me adjusting back to regular life in the United States.  My post-traumatic stress disorder is still a daily struggle, but I have fellow checkers to share stories and jokes with.  Granted, we all have our own issues, but I haven’t felt this much comradery since my days in the military.

        Just as I start processing their first few transactions, a commotion breaks out between the three compatriots.  I can’t make out the discussion over the trendy Taylor Swift anthem being piped into the checkout area via overhead speakers, but suddenly the young boy sprints off towards the back of the store.  Interesting.   

       There’s a pretty diverse mix of product crawling down the moving rubber pathway towards me.  As the gatekeeper before a person leaves the store, I have a chance to review, and analyze, everything that a customer is purchasing. 

      In this instance, my seasoned mind is already whirring away instinctively.  The volume of meats and vegetables suggest a fairly large, home cooked, meal is in the works.  The booze hints at a celebration of some sort.  Combined with the cake, and time current time of year, I wagering on a surprise college graduation party.

        Another one of my pet peeves, I prefer to organize ingredients by type when I pass them along, or bag them myself.  Frozen goods, perishable ingredients, fragile items, pantry staples; if each of these categories stays together when bagging, it makes the unloading process at home much simpler.  At least that’s my experience, so I try to continually enlighten others.  

       In this case, the middle-aged woman is packing her own groceries, into her own carrying vessels.  This “BYOB” policy, as our boss calls it, seems to be much more common since we started charging for both plastic and paper grocery bags, even though the amount is menial. 

        Passing back a package of frozen shrimp, I notice a glint on the woman’s wrist, as she loads the seafood into her large tote bag, placing this item on top of its two identical friends.  She seems quite affluent, with lots of sparkly jewelry, designer jeans, and a massive purse that must be expensive.  Hopefully, since the deli and butcher counter offerings, plus the alcohol, are conspiring to rack up quite a tally.

       While this woman is bagging, I spot the old lady subtly maneuver her scooter, if such an act is possible, up to the digital pay station, and insert her credit card.  The distracted packer, who I’m pretty sure is this elder’s daughter, based on shared mannerisms, notices, but too late.  The annoying beeping noise designed to stop customers from forgetting their payment plastic is already signifying the transaction has gone through.  Well played granny.

        For some reason, this old fossil doesn’t remove her credit card, and the incessant racket continues.  That repetitive noise already haunts my dreams.  I eventually realize the ancient ears can’t hear the security chime.  Her descendant has evidently drawn the same conclusion, as she reaches around, and roughly pulls the card from its entrapped slot.  Relative silence, mixed with modern pop music, reenters the space. 

        Grabbing a bundle of celery, and entering the produce code from memory, the next object that rolls forward on the conveyor is the thin plastic divider denoting the next customer’s goods.  

       I’ve rung up all the items, but the middle-aged woman continues to pace impatiently behind me.  Maybe she’s still mad about not being able to pay.  

       “Anything else?” I inquire, turning around.

       Instead of responding, this lady shifts her gaze back to the interior of the store.  My eyes follow instinctively, yielding the amusing sight of a young boy in a hooded sweatshirt sprinting down the aisle, waiving something in his right hand.  Nearing the check stand, he finds two other patrons, and their carts, blocking access to the front of the line, where, who I presume to be his mom, stands.

      Waffling briefly, the boy makes a brash decision.  Winding up, he throws the rectangular wedge overhand, lofting it well above the tall racks of candy and magazines which line my checkout lane. 

       If the toss is meant to reach his mother, it’s sadly misguided.  But the parcel is headed my way, coming in above head high, and gaining speeds as it descends back to earth.  Reaching up, I catch the projectile with both hands; apparently playing football in high school paid off for something finally.

       The mystery missile is heavier, and harder, than I anticipate.  The impact nearly drives my fingers back into my face.

Flipping the item over reveals the product name, weight, and cost, in neat, black, block, lettering.

       “Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, 0.35 pounds, $5.60” 

      I should have guessed as much, based on the Italian sounding last name on the driver’s license ID that I checked as a courtesy, and the specific rice they purchased.

      Bringing the brick down to the laser scanner with a flourish, I swipe the barcode, winking to the lad, causing his look of mortified terror to transition into sheepish embarrassment.

     I read off the final total, seeing the rest of the bagged items have already been transferred to the elderly woman’s electric scooter cart.  I drop the cheese, and the receipt, into a brimming bag, finding a sufficient gap between the cloth side, and a carton of strawberries.

       Shifting my focus, I face back forward, ready for the next engagement.  We need to keep this line moving.      

The Meal:

        I understand cooking is a labor of love, and patience, but this is a little excessive.

       My mother, Nonna, as my son still affectionately calls her, has spent the last two hours making chicken stock.  At least she’s making use of the skin, bones, and trimmed fat; the practice of using all parts of an animal is a technique I appreciate.  Within reason of course. 

      I was an odd child, happy to eat a raw clove of garlic, instead of a Hershey kiss, and more likely to ask for a shot of olive oil, than a can of soda.  There’s no doubt my love of cooking came from my mom. 

       However, she just passed the trimmed chicken breasts off to me 30 minutes ago, finally content she’s extracted all of the ancillary flavoring bits needs.  

      Our guests are showing in just over an hour, and I’ve got 12 servings of chicken to pound, roll, bread, fry, bake, rest, and serve before then.  This meal wasn’t supposed to be a 4-hour project, and the old folks won’t be awake if we eat at midnight.

       I’ve set up an assembly line; this is my preferred method when cooking for large groups.  It allows me to consolidate prep work, and make sure I don’t forget any ingredients.  Good thing I was able to get all the other recipe components ready in advance.  Still, not much I can do in terms of cooking this dish without the main protein.

       Hammering the chicken breast on top of the thick wooden cutting board, I focus on getting an even thickness around half an inch; giving a few extra hits to the tough ligaments near the wing joint.  I make sure to keep the skin side of the chicken down, this helps hold the breast meat together from underneath as it’s being pulverized.  This process is quite cathartic, especially in my current stressed state.

    Four flattened breasts ready, the maximum I can fit comfortably in my largest non-stick frying pan, it’ time to proceed.  This saucepan, a wedding present, and now integral tool for family meals, is already sitting on the stove top.  I pour enough extra virgin olive oil to fully cover the bottom surface, then turn the heat to medium-high.   

       On the small, back, burner of the range, caddy corner to the large heating element I’m using, are two stacked pans in a double boiler configuration.  The water is the bottom pan is simmering gently, and the large blocks of 85% cocoa dark chocolate have just started to transform from their original hard, rectangular, shape, to more amorphous, softening, globs.  My son insisted on taking the reins making desert for his dad’s celebration.  I appreciate the little guy’s efforts, he’s shown an increased interest in cooking, but is still learning the ropes. 

        Content the chocolate isn’t burning, and my frying oil is warming up, I proceed with assembly.

       First, each flat cutlet of meat gets a liberal sprinkling of blended dry herbs.  Thyme, rosemary, sage, oregano, basil, and garlic powder; this Italian spice blend, which I mix from scratch weekly, is a staple of my cooking.  Combined with salt and pepper to taste, I rarely use anything else for flavoring dishes.

       In addition to these dry spices, I apply one of the key ingredients to this dish.  A generous dollop of Dijon mustard, which I spread across the entire inside of the chicken breast with a butter knife, making sure to get this flavorful paste into all the hidden crannies of the pounded meat.

    Blissfully distracted by the pungent vinegar aromas of this mustard, I’m suddenly startled by a loud mechanical grinding noise, so harsh that I nearly drop the metal blade in my hand.  Instantly, I know what it is.  My mom is trying to using the food processor again. 

       Growing up, I used to sit in the kitchen and watch her make pesto by hand; meticulously chopping all the ingredients very fine, then finishing to the desired consistency with an ancient stone mortar and pestle.  In recent years, I’ve turned her on to the benefits of automated mixing, a great boon for her frail and fatigued arms, though it’s clear she hasn’t fully grasped the technology yet.

      “Can you help your Nonna with the blender?” I call out, not looking up from the food preparation activities in front of me.  With the chocolate on the stove, I know my son is hovering around the kitchen somewhere.  Plus, he makes smoothies like we own a fruit stand, so there’s no doubt he can handle this repair task.  Enough distractions, back to assembly mode.

    Next, the deli items are layered, thin and holey, rounded corner, rectangles of Lorraine swiss first, then the spicy rounds of capicola on top; two pieces of cured pork cover a single slice of cheese nicely. 

      I’ve experimented with different layering approaches for all these ingredients, finding this combination promotes the most flavorful herb infusion to the chicken, optimal gooey cheese melting, and seals in the bold flavors of the spicy cured pork, which slowly disperse through the package while cooking.

     Rolling this messy pile into a tight bundle, I secure the end flap of the chicken with exactly three toothpicks, taking care to push them almost completely in the roll at an angle that will keep it from unraveling.  My goal is to maintain the position of these pointy connectors as consistently as possible, since I plan to remove them before serving. 

       I don’t trust any of this party’s guests, besides my husband, to remember to take these small sticks out at the table.

    Happy with the shape and quality of this inaugural log, I grab a pinch of breadcrumbs and drop them into the generous layer of oil that has been warming the large frying pan.  The tiny particles sizzle softly, turning from light tan to golden brown after a few seconds of submersion.  Perfect.

     My son walks up next to me, trying to snag a piece of capicola, but I quickly shoo him away.  Apparently, Nonna’s electronics issues have been solved, since I can hear the food processor purring at a more standard cadence now. 

       He plops down on a stool at the counter, where he’s been working his way through a carton of strawberries on a small cutting board.  It’s looking like he’s eaten about as many as he’s processed.  God forbid he cuts himself now, I’m knee deep in this project, so someone else will have to take him to the hospital.   

       I give the egg wash, which has separated slightly in the past few minutes, a brisk whish with a fork, returning the bowl to a bright yellow color, and even consistency, then drop the meat roll-up in, coating the entire skin-side surface of the meat with a slimy glaze.

     Moving down the line towards the stove, the package next encounters a deep plate filled with Italian breadcrumbs, generously infused with my homemade spice blend.  It’s pretty much impossible to over flavor this potent dish.  I roll the chicken several times, making sure to avoid getting stabbed by the protruding toothpick tips. 

      Content this starchy coverage is sufficient, I place the meat gently in the hot oil, making sure the open outer flap is down in the molten liquid, so that it will be the first zone to get sealed up.  I step back, keeping my soiled hands over the pan to avoid spillage on the floor.  The chicken simmers away happily in its grease bath, frying aromas mingling with the already intoxicating smells of homemade chicken stock which hang thick in the air.

        Back to the start of the line, I should be able to get another piece configured before needing to turn the first log. 

       The doorbell rings loudly.  I look down at my hands, covered in egg wash and seasoned bread crumbs.  Then, I raise my eyes skyward, staring at the gap between our mahogany wood cabinets, and off-white popcorn ceiling treatment, then pray.

        It’s 6 PM, and the dinner invite was for 7 PM.  Who’s here already?  I’m sure I know the answer, it’s the same couple that’s perpetually early.  My husband’s brother, and his eccentric wife. 

        Fortunately, my secret weapon is sitting on the counter.  Six pounds of large shrimp arranged atop a bed of crushed ice, accompanied by spicy cocktail sauce and lemon wedges.  Minimal prep, and no cooking needed, plus the in-laws with picky appetites will wolf them down like potato chips.

       Even though it’s my husband’s birthday, he’s going to have to do some work entertaining, so we can finish up our cooking activities.

      “Honey, can you let your brother in?  Beer is on the porch.” I call out loudly, hoping he’s already headed that way.  Ideally, my savvy partner will lead our perpetually early visitors directly outside, so they don’t have the opportunity to pop their head in, and observe the tornado that recently went through this kitchen.

       Six minutes later, our first guests haven’t intruded, and there are four tender morsels of protein cooking away in the pan, three in a row side by side, with the fourth angled 90° relative to its neighbors, to most optimally use the large, round, frying pan area.

      Content with this batch, I wash my hands and grab the largest Pyrex glass pans we have, a pair of 13” by 9” items.  Setting these on the counter, the oven beeps, confirming the target 375°F temperature has been reached.  As I delicately roll the girthy chicken tubes in the oil bath, checking the flap is sealed before giving them a 120° axial rotation, I do some quick math. 

      Two more batches to crank out in the frying pan, then the required 40-minute baking cycle, maybe 35-minutes with our fancy convection oven, should have the main dish out and resting just 15 minutes after my original planned dinner time.  Just keep plugging away.   

      20 minutes later, from my position at the sink, washing up the various vessels used in my restaurant-style preparation line, I can see my mother at the stove.  She’s taken over this station now that I’m done frying, and is right in her element.

As I watch, she drops the carefully measured amount of arborio rice into a large saucepan, which already contains sautéed onions, that have been heated to the point there they are translucent, aside from some lovely charring along the edges.

      Blending the contents of the pot until she’s convinced the rice is sufficiently coated in olive oil, my mother uses the Pinot Grigio cooking wine I grabbed at the store to deglaze the roasted bits from the pan.  A rush of bright, crisp pear and green apple, aromatics engulf the kitchen.     

      Next, she ladles a cup of homemade chicken broth from the simmering stockpot on the stove; this liquid packs the condensed flavors of meat and vegetables that can only be achieved via time.  She positions her tiny nose just inches from the pan, wrinkled face seemingly oblivious to the molten steam rising up.  This dish, an inherited family recipe, is a labor of “amore”. 

        I don’t anticipate Nonna moving from her position at the stove, standing atop her special, 18-inch tall, stepping stool, for the next half hour.  Time after time, she’s instilled in me that this liquid addition is the most important part of the starch cooking process.  Continuously stirring with the thick wooden spoon in her right hand, and adding liquid with the small metal ladle in her left; the search for that perfect el dente arborio rice is on. 

       Walking out into the living room, then looking out the picture window onto the porch, I see the three adults, two men and a woman, chatting jovially, occasionally clinking together their cold beer bottles as they laugh, undoubtably to the punchline of some random joke.  My sister-in-law fancies herself a real comedian, plus drinks beer faster than the guys.  They’ll be content out there for a while.     

       I have no idea what brews I bought them, but at least these human distractions are out of the kitchen.  And, the heaping pile of cocktail shrimp is only somewhat diminished.  Hopefully, that bowl of seafood can tide over the hungry jackals a few minutes longer.   

         Returning my thoughts, and gaze, back to the activities in the kitchen, I take stock of the current situation. 

        A dozen chicken cordon bleu portions are nested cozily in the oven.  Activating the internal light, thought the glass window, I can see the browning crust of breading on the top of each piece, and growing layer of flavorful juices bubbling away in the space between them.  One glass pan will be done 10 minutes before the other, which should work well for our staged buffet style serving plan.  I just need to remember to pull out all those toothpicks. 

        At the stove, Nonna has not left her perch.  However, now most of the stock liquid has been absorbed on the arborio rice, and the sautéed creminis, plus the homemade pesto, have been added into the dish.  The aromas of earthy mushrooms, sweet basil, and woody pine nuts are right out of my childhood memory banks. 

       I still need to shave the Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, a critical topping for this heirloom risotto course.  Another reminiscence from my upbringing flashes past.  Back then, whoever finished shredding the cheese got to eat the last small end that couldn’t be pressed through the grater.  I’m all grown up now, but in my house, that rule still stands.  Sounds like a good appetizer for me, since all the shrimp are outside.

     Heading to get the cheese, I recall what’s in the fridge, and hesitate briefly.  Opening the door, slowly through squinting eyes, I’m greeted to a pleasant surprise.  My son has done an excellent job of adorning the top of the cake with fresh strawberries, bright wedges of red on the glossy dark brown and matte golden tan visual palette underneath.  Touching the glaze gingerly, confirms that, despite my skepticism, the dark chocolate ganache is setting up nicely on the vanilla Bundt cake.  A few springs of torn mint from the garden to put on top when we serve, and we’ll be onto some something. 

         This gathering may work out after all.  My husband will be proud, and impressed.  

      Grabbing my wine glass off the wiped-down countertop, I take a big gulp, savoring to the bold, sour cherry, fruit forward, flavors, balanced by the bitterness of moderate tannins, and vanilla imparted by the oak barreling.  This is an excellent Italian Sangiovese, a solid recommendation from the sommelier at the grocery store bar. 

        Cheers to another potential crisis averted.  With help of course.