Improvising, Sue and I loaded our shoulder bags with the items. What we couldn’t fit in our purses, we loaded in our arms.
A young woman, observing our balancing act, pointed to a peg at the front of the store from which hung netted bags. They looked like colorful macramé beach bags. We soon found that the netting weave allowed the bag to expand and to hold various-shaped items. We gladly bought four of the bags and filled them with our groceries. It was the only time during our stay in Venice that we arrived at a market without those indispensable bags.
“Are you willing to have a little adventure?” Sue asked as we exited the store.
“That depends. Does it involve carrying these groceries very far?”
“Not much farther. I want to try another route home. I think the next street over takes us straight home, but we’ll see a different street.”
“Okay,” I said. “You’re the navigator. Go ahead. Impress me with your sense of direction.”
Sue led the way. We passed a shoe store and a TV repair shop and then came to a shaded corner where a bar occupied one side of the street. Directly across from the bar was an open-air fruit stand displaying a beautiful array of summer fruits under a dark blue canopy.
We walked up and admired the variety and freshness of the fruit.
“Look,” Sue said. “Apricots. Your favorite. Let’s get some. We could fit a few into these grocery bags, don’t you think?”
“Sure. They look so good. And look at these tomatoes.”
The older man behind the stand seemed to sense my admiration for the fruits and vegetables. He picked up one of the regally purple eggplants and polished it with a cloth, glancing up at me in a flirtatious way to see if I noticed the extra care he gave to his produce.
“Jenna, I think we should load up with all we can manage to fit in our bags, don’t you? We have room.”
“Four zucchini, please,” I said, easily catching the man’s attention by holding up my thumb and three fingers. It seemed like a good idea to start with the item that had the same name in English as it did in Italian.
“Quattro zucchini,” he repeated briskly, ready to assist me.
“Si.”
Sue pointed to the nectarines. “Could you ask him for five of these?”
I gave her a funny look. “You can ask him as easily as I can.”
“He’ll understand you better.” She gave me a pitiful look that seemed to say, “Please don’t make me drawl in public again.”
Turning to the merchant of Venice, I held up five fingers and pointed to the nectarines with a big smile. He said something in Italian and placed the nectarines on the scale.
“See, Sue? I didn’t say a word, and he understood. You could have done that.”
“Uh, I think maybe you should have used some words. He’s up to nectarine eight and counting.”
“No.” I briskly moved my hand back and forth and held up five fingers. “Only five. No more. Only five.”
“Si, cinque chilli.”
“Kee-lay?” Sue repeated.
“Are you saying ‘kilos’?” I asked. “No, not kilos. Just five nectarines. How do you say ‘only’?”
“Don’t ask me,” Sue said.
“Solo?” I questioned the merchant, taking a stab at the word for ‘only.’ “Solo five nectarines. Solo cinque …”
“Solo?” he repeated, appearing amused.
In what I’m guessing was her idea of on-the-spot assistance, Sue sang, “O solo mio!”
The produce merchant burst into laughter. “Gondolier!” he called out to the other man in the booth, pointing at Sue.
“No, she’s not trying to imitate a gondola driver,” I said. “We want only five nectarines, okay?”
Now both of them were talking to us and about us, I’m sure. They were grinning and elbowing each other as they watched us wilting under the intense Italian dialogue. The older one tilted his head back and imitated Sue, singing, “O solo mio.” He actually was pretty good.
The younger man leaned over as the concert continued and said something to me that included the phrase, “cinque chilli.”
“Fine,” I said, giving up. “Si. Cinque chilli.”
He looked proud of himself, as if he had solved the language problem between all men and women and every warring nation since the beginning of time. Nothing is as mesmerizing as the face of a proud Venetian. Sue and I watched as he jubilantly weighed out five blessed kilos of ripe nectarines while his pal sang.
I didn’t dare try to add apricots to our order.
Nine
Heading back to our palace at a brisk pace, Sue and I could still hear the fruit vendors loudly singing another chorus of “O Solo Mio.”
Sue chuckled and glanced at me. I didn’t think the situation was that funny, and apparently Sue could tell that by my look because she pressed her lips together, as if to hold in a laughter bubble.
We ducked around the corner and could still hear the duet. A giggle leaked from Sue’s lips.
I smiled ever so slightly, remembering the proud look on the vendor’s face as he weighed the fat nectarines and sang at the top of his lungs. That certainly never had happened in the produce section of Abbot’s Grocery! I tried to picture our skinny produce guy singing to the customers, and a chuckle rose in my throat. The chuckle escaped my mock serious expression, and the minute it did, Sue’s rumbling belly laugh exploded.
“They’re still singing!” she said between laughs.
I had to stop walking. All I could do was laugh. Sue and I put down our heavy bags and tried to catch our breath between the shoulder-shaking laughter.
Neither of us could speak for several minutes. The tears rolled down our cheeks, and the giddy-fest kept going. I couldn’t recall the last time I had laughed so hard and consequently felt so good.
When we caught our breath, we lugged the bursting bags of groceries to our palace. Trickles of giggles trailed us like invisible streamers.
Both of us said later that the nectarine encounter wasn’t that funny, and the merchants of Venice actually were kind of rude to mock us. But once a contagious laugh bug latches onto you, if you aren’t up on your chuckle inoculations, you could well end up with the giggles—and you’ll get them bad!
We were out of breath by the time we carried the groceries up the marble stairs. I thought my arms were going to fall off. Later we found out that five kilos of nectarines were equivalent to eleven pounds. That plus all the other groceries.
“No wonder all the Venetian women we’ve seen are so slim,” Sue said. “If I had to do this every day, I’d be svelte, too!”
Her use of the word svelte made me feel another bout of laughter coming on. I turned away from her and tried to think of something serious so I wouldn’t give way to the giggles again and disrupt the men. Their voices echoed in the other room as their strategy meeting continued.
Sue and I composed ourselves. We dropped the grocery bags onto the counter, and then we dropped into the two chairs by the open window. I still was smiling as a slight breeze floated in and tended to the beads of perspiration coursing down our necks.
“Do you want some water?” Sue forced herself out of the chair.
“Sure. Thanks.”
She filled two glasses and then turned around with one of the freshly plucked fruits in her hand. “Nectarine?”
“I hate nectarines,” I said with a straight face.
“You do not.”
“Yes, I do. Of all the fruits we could have bulked up on, nectarines are my least favorite.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
Sue looked like she still was riding on the giggle endorphins as she swished across the floor. “Ah, but you’ve never had an Italian nectarine that has been blessed by a singing merchant of Venice!”
“No, and it’s possible I never will.”
“Aw, come on. You should at least try one.” Sue rinsed a nectarine and took a big bite. “Mmm. So delicious. F
resh and sweet and—hey! I wonder if they make gelato out of these. We’ll have to ask next time. Where’s your phrase book?”
I pointed to my lumpy shoulder bag that rested on the marble-top table where I had hoisted it. Even my purse had become a receptacle for the nectarines.
Sue thumbed through the small book. “Here it is.” She pointed to the words pesca nettarina and pronounced it aloud, “Pes-ka net-a-ree-na.”
She paused, thinking a moment. “Hey, wasn’t that the name of a Soviet figure skater?”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing again. Covering my mouth, I tried to lower my voice so the men wouldn’t hear. The way Sue pronounced the words did make them sound like a Soviet figure skater.
Sue looked pleased that she had cajoled another laugh from me. “The next time we go for gelato I’m going to ask for pes-ka net-a-ree-na and see what I get.”
“You do that,” I said, rising and calming myself. I concentrated on placing the perishable groceries into the refrigerator because I knew it wouldn’t take much for Sue to start me laughing again. In an effort to move the conversation onto a more serious topic, I asked, “Did I tell you that I found out where the eggs came from?”
“No, where?”
“Malachi brought them.”
“All the way from Africa?”
I nodded and told Sue what Malachi had said about the chicken being the sacrifice and the eggs being only an offering.
“Makes you think, doesn’t it? We have so much,” Sue said.
“I know.”
“I think I complain too much, Jenna.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m not very thankful for the little things. The gifts, or I guess I should call them offerings, that come my way every day. Not to mention all the sacrifices. My way of thinking about everything the past few years has been through the Jack-filter, if you know what I mean. I think of Jack’s situation every hour of every day, and everything else in my life is measured by the aftermath of his accident. It’s too easy to feel sorry for myself.”
I stopped rearranging the items in the refrigerator and gave Sue my full attention. She seemed to sense my intense interest in what she had said and quickly pulled back. “I’m just thinking aloud.”
“I know. That’s okay.”
“You don’t have to diagnose me or anything.”
“Diagnose you?”
“You know, like you did the other day, when you figured out why I didn’t want to sleep on the couch.”
“Oh.”
“Or when you wanted me to pray with you on the roof, and I said I’m still figuring things out.”
“That’s okay.” I looked away, trying to give Sue the space she was asking for. I knew then that I had invited her on this trip because I wanted to “help” her. I wanted her to get away from her situation at home, and yes, if I were completely honest, I thought I could “fix” her. There. I admitted it to myself.
What I sensed in the kitchen that morning was the Spirit of God refreshing my sister-in-law through everything around us. We had been washed with the Word as Malachi read from Psalms, then all the new experiences, tastes, encounters, and small challenges were displays of how God could care for Sue more than I ever could. My job wasn’t to diagnose her or counsel her or try to teach her anything. We were students together. Equals in every way. Sue and I were fellow victims of grace.
I felt as if I’d just been shown my place—a clarification of my role in our friendship in this new season of diving into the deep end and experiencing the refreshing that comes from such a plunge. I had places deep inside me that I needed to examine and that needed healing, too, but Sue wasn’t trying to fix those in me. All I had to do was be here and receive the grace as it fell on me.
I smiled at Sue.
She smiled back. A relieved expression lessened the worry wrinkles that had shown up on her forehead. She could take the next breath, the next step in her spiritual journey with a sense of freedom.
I felt free as well.
“So, what should we do first?” Sue looked around the kitchen. “I guess I could cut up some of the nectarines and put them out on the table while the meeting still is going on.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
We took our positions, and the dance of the kitchen maids commenced. Sue washed the nectarines, sliced them, and placed them on the table in three small plates before I had found enough places to store the rest of the groceries.
We went to work preparing the midday meal. Organized Sue had brought a cookbook of Italian recipes with her. It’s a good thing I didn’t know that before this moment because I would have made fun of her.
However, she had a plan, and I didn’t. Having measurements and directions in front of us in English was a lifesaver. I, of course, hadn’t even considered what we would cook or how we would know what amounts to prepare.
Sue suggested we round everything up to servings for ten, wanting to make sure there was enough. She also had thought through the menu options and had purchased all the ingredients necessary for chicken scallopini.
“Doesn’t scallopini refer to veal?” I asked. Not being much of a cook, I was out of my element.
“It just means the meat is thin. And you pound it.”
“What do you mean, ‘you pound it’?”
Sue looked at me in disbelief. “You know, you cover the boneless meat with wax paper or plastic wrap, and then you pound it with a mallet until it’s thin and tenderized.”
“Really?”
“You’ve never done that? You’ve never made pork chops or chicken like that?”
“No, never. I told you I’m not a cook.” With a half a tease I added, “Now do you understand why I asked you to come with me?”
Sue reached for the aprons we had left on a wall hook the night before and with a stiff arm held out one of them to me. Then she slipped on her apron with a new determination and gave the strings a tug as she tied them.
“Watch and learn, Jenna, girl. We are going to make some art out of this dead chicken. And brace yourself because I’m thinking of incorporating a few nectarines in the experiment.”
Newly empowered in the kitchen, Sue went to work, making use of the tools available to us. In lieu of wax paper she employed the butcher paper that our bread had been bundled up in. When she couldn’t find a mallet or meat tenderizer, she told me to stand back. Removing one of her shoes, she rinsed the sole with hot water and used the flat heel to pulverize the boneless chicken thighs between the butcher paper.
“Do we cook all this in the oven?” I asked.
Sue looked at me as if I were making a joke. “Jenna, we don’t have an oven.”
I looked around and for the first time realized the kitchen wasn’t outfitted with an oven. How could I have missed that detail? How were we going to prepare food for all these men without an oven?
“That’s why we’re making scallopini,” Sue said. “We have three frying pans, and we’re going to need all of them. Could you pull those out?”
She continued giving me directions, which I noticed was a role she was enjoying. “We’re serving lunch at noon, right? Because once we start to cook this, we need to serve it right away.”
“Yes, they said noon. Should I set the table so it’s ready?”
“Great idea. And bring the plates into the kitchen. We’ll serve the scallopini directly on the plates. You can wash the zucchini after the table is set. Cut them into really narrow pieces. We’re going to steam them.”
“Okay.” I was a willing assistant to my organized sister-in-law.
The final result of her creativity was masterpiece quality in my eyes. At noon she and I stepped into the dining room carrying plates that artfully displayed our offering to the men.
The thin chicken thighs had been floured, braised, covered with a cream sauce, and accented with thin slices of the fresh nectarines. The companion, steamed zucchini, filled out the china plates with color and texture. Appreciati
ve murmurs rose as we delivered the hot plates, and the men began to eat.
As if all that clever deliciousness wasn’t enough, Sue had made fresh pesto from the bunch of basil, garlic, and olive oil. I’d never seen anyone use a mortar and pestle before. She handled the beautiful marble set like a medieval herbalist. Two small bowls of the pesto were placed at either end of the table next to the two loaves of bread.
I stood back and watched the men eat, making sure we had placed everything on the table that they needed. Slipping back into the kitchen, I smiled at Sue. She grinned back and nodded. Mission accomplished.
We had just finished putting away the last pan when Sue pointed to the round clock on the wall. “It’s only one-thirty. What do you want to do now? Please say you want to go shopping.”
“Do we need more groceries already?”
“No, we have everything we need for the meal tonight,” Sue said. “I meant window shopping. Fun shopping. Or we could just walk around and see some of the sights.”
“Shopping is at the top of the charts for me,” I said, equally interested in taking advantage of the open space in our schedule. Before Sue mentioned shopping I’d been thinking a little siesta sounded inviting. However, our beds were going to be in the sun all afternoon. Our only place for a siesta would be in the two chairs here in the kitchen by the window.
I was beginning to realize that I was an early morning bird who liked to take off flying and then return to her nest to tuck her head under her wing halfway through the day. Sue was the afternoon bunny who took awhile to wind up, but once she got going, she was energized.
“I thought I’d pull out the map and chart an easy course for us,” Sue suggested.
“While you do that, I’m going to sneak into the shower.”
“Okay. Do you care where we go?”
“No. I’m interested in seeing anything and everything.”
Instead of reviving me, the shower exasperated me. The trickle of water from the handheld nozzle was more of a sprinkle than a shower. I washed and rinsed my short hair as best I could. The next time I washed my hair I’d use the kitchen sink.