Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
“Keep your recipes, and I’ll keep mine. However, in the spirit of a truce, I bought tomatoes and spices and pulled up a decent-looking marinara recipe online. I thought maybe you could give me some pointers.”
“How’d we go from a BJ in your office to marinara tips? Your sexy game has taken a nose dive, Vilmer,” he chided without heat. “Try again.”
I snort-laughed. “You’re right. How about a trade?”
“Hmm, like marinara pointers for a blowjob?”
He was joking, but…also…not.
That familiar telltale crackle of awareness was difficult to ignore, so I didn’t bother.
I nodded slowly. “Yeah, something like that.”
Mateo’s gaze fixed on my mouth. He cleared his throat and stepped toward the bowl of tomatoes.
Good. Food was easy.
This…whatever was going on with us—not so much.
“We can’t use these. They’re not sweet or ripe enough. You can substitute quality canned tomatoes. If you have the ingredients we can continue, otherwise you’re outta luck with the sugo.”
“What’s sugo?” I asked, opening the pantry.
“It’s Italian for juice or…sauce. My grandfather and my dad and uncle called it sugo. Or you say gravy, marinara, or spaghetti sauce or pasta sauce. It’s the simplest thing to make—very few ingredients. Tomatoes, tomato paste, onion, garlic, bay leaf, salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, and a couple of secret spices Cavarettis never share.”
“Understood. Found it.” I held up a twenty-eight-ounce can of whole tomatoes and a smaller can of tomato paste. “This too?”
“Yep. Paste thickens the sauce. It’s not mandatory. Some people like a thinner consistency.”
“What do you like?”
Mateo waggled his brows. “I always go for the thicker option.”
I snorted, humming along to a series of instructions I had no hope of following while Mateo literally took over my kitchen, spreading ingredients across the island and barking orders like a…well, a chef. He knew what he was doing. There was no consulting cookbooks or Internet experts. I got the impression that the recipe he was sharing was one he’d memorized as a kid.
“When did you learn how to cook?” I asked, carefully dicing onions on a cutting board while Mateo crushed tomatoes in a bowl.
“I’ve been in a kitchen my whole life.” Mateo rinsed his hands, poured olive oil into the pan on the stove, and turned on the burner. “I have early memories of standing on a stool next to my nonna, chopping basil or stirring marinara. Her kitchen was always busy…lots of family around. My house was quiet and—you’re gonna chop a finger off, Vilmer. Hold the onion like this.”
He gave a brief tutorial, handling the knife the way he used to handle a football. It was tempting to argue that I knew how to chop a damn onion, but I didn’t want to upset our fledgling truce. And every crumb of information Mateo shared made me curious to know more.
I scraped the onions into the pot per his instructions and stirred. “I can’t imagine a quiet house. I have two sisters, Kate and Gwen—one older, one younger. They shared a room, and I had my own. They’re still bitter about it. They conveniently forget that they constantly hogged the bathroom. I was always late because of them. Evil.”
Mateo shot an unreadable glance at me. “Now we add the garlic, salt, and red pepper flakes. This is a variation…right here with the garlic. We don’t always add garlic. According to my mom, garlic and onion compete for flavor and too much garlic overpowers a dish. But that’s a taste thing.”
“I love garlic.” I set the beer bottles near the sink and reached for a bottle of Pinot Noir. “Wine?”
“Sure, thanks. Okay, add the tomatoes, a teaspoon of tomato paste, and…a bay leaf. Cover the pot and let it simmer. In twenty minutes, it’ll be ready.”
“Really? That seems too easy.” I poured the Pinot and handed him a glass.
Mateo swirled the burgundy liquid and shrugged. “I told you it’s simple. It may need more salt and pepper, and personally, I like basil and parsley too.”
“Do you use fresh or dried herbs?” I leaned casually against the counter and sipped my wine. And almost did a spit-take at Mateo’s deadpan stare. He didn’t crack a smile until I almost choked around a laugh, wiping tears from the corner of my eyes. “Asshole.”
“So I’ve been told,” he quipped. “You can use either, but I prefer fresh. Too many people buy dried herbs and never check the expiration dates. Then they put fifteen-year-old nutmeg in their gingerbread cookies and wonder why they taste weird.”
“That would be my mom. I helped her clean out her pantry when Dad was in the hospital for gallbladder surgery last summer. She had cans of soup from the last century.”
Mateo widened his eyes comically. “No.”
“Yep. There’s a strong possibility she’s been serving expired soup for years. Kate and Gwen think the fact that we survived meatloaf surprise and Mom’s chicken casserole with potato-chip toppings means we have cast-iron stomachs and are probably immune to most diseases.”