Maria noticed Rosa look down, trying to stay in emotional control. Rosa was living in the Vatican, but Massimo had yet to return from the labor camp, and there had been no word of him.
Maria cleared her throat. “Not all of you know me well. I’m always in the kitchen. I’m in the kitchen at the restaurant or I’m in the kitchen at the apartment. I guess I never leave a kitchen, whether downstairs or upstairs.”
Everyone chuckled, which Maria hadn’t expected.
“I’m not a fancy chef or a pasta professoressa like our Elisabetta, my wonderful new daughter-in-law.”
Elisabetta smiled up at her.
“And Bar GiroSport is a bar, not a restaurant. I was hired as a cook because I worked for free.”
Everyone chuckled again, which made Maria happy. She realized that giving a speech was just talking to people and telling the truth, a notion that gave her the courage to continue.
“I mean to say, I’m only a normal cook, like every mother, every woman. And every day, before every meal, I open the refrigerator and I see what I have. I’m always missing ingredients I really need and really want. I’m missing them all the time. That’s never been more true than now, with the war. So every day, before every meal, my question is the same. What can I make with what I have?” Maria nodded, feeling the truth of her words. “I ask myself that question, every time I start to cook. I always have, even when the boys were little. What can I make with what I have?”
Marco, Elisabetta, and Rosa were listening attentively. Emedio frowned, worried for her or perhaps wondering what her point was. Maria wasn’t sure herself, since she was speaking from the heart. She didn’t know if it would come out right.
“Anyway, every day, every meal, I put the ingredients I have together, whatever I have. Whatever scraps or leftovers, whatever bits and pieces. I make a meal of my scraps, and it always turns out better than I thought it would. It surprises me, every time. Every meal. Please don’t think I’m boasting. We know the glory goes to God. He works through me, and every time, I end up with a meal I am proud to serve.”
Maria clarified her thoughts, and her jitters ebbed away.
“Life in mourning is like that. We do not have everything we want. We do not have everything we need. We are missing so much. We are missing those we love. Our hearts ache all the time.”
Maria’s lips trembled. She wasn’t sure she could continue. She forced herself, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“But I look around the table and I see some wonderful ingredients here.” Maria shifted her loving gaze to Marco, Elisabetta, Emedio, and Rosa, each in turn. “I see ingredients that go very well with other ingredients. I know if we all come together, like we are now, that with God’s help, we will make a beautiful, delicious meal that will sustain us all, with the love of one another.”
Everyone smiled, and tears came to Maria’s eyes, happy rather than sad. She had gotten her point out. She raised her glass.
“I propose a toast to my beloved son Marco and his new wife, Elisabetta. We love them and we respect their marriage and the family they make today. I think their future will be so delicious, it will surprise even them. To Marco and Elisabetta.”
And everyone raised a glass.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-TWO
Marco
4 June 1944
Marco stood with Elisabetta at the glass window of the incubation nursery, in amazement. On the other side of the window was their tiny pink son, who had been born in the middle of the night, ahead of schedule. The infant slept under his white blanket, but his features remarkably resembled Elisabetta’s, albeit in miniature. The baby’s body was more like Sandro’s, and Marco felt a deep pang of sadness that Sandro hadn’t lived to see his baby born. Elisabetta felt the same way, he knew, for they had discussed it many times. The baby’s birth had rekindled their shared grief, comingling now with their joy.
“A son.” Marco placed a palm on the glass, as he gazed at the baby.
“A son,” Elisabetta repeated, with a happy sigh. “You sure he’s going to be okay? He’s healthy? The doctor said so?”
“Yes, he’s healthy. He’s just impatient, like me.”
“And you’re happy, now that he’s here?”
“I’m absolutely sure. I couldn’t be happier, cara.” Marco gave her a kiss, and Elisabetta nestled into his shoulder.
“Is it still okay if we name him Alessandro?”
“Of course,” Marco said. “Alessandro Terrizzi. It’s a wonderful name.”