To The Ocean And Back (Part 1 of a Luca Series)

Daniela's Song

May 27th 1968, 7:02 PM

Being in the kitchen had the same effect as being underwater. If it was filled with water, which it wasn't. And if it was swimming with fish, which it wasn't. Outside, the music barely penetrated the walls. Conversations that were happening in full volume were muted, reduced to a low murmur that provided background noise for Alberto as he kept stirring the tomato sauce. As much as it absolutely killed him to be standing here finishing up his special spaghetti sauce instead of outside talking to Luca, he loved time he had to himself. Being in the small kitchen, hearing chatter outside, inhaling the spicy aroma of bell peppers, garlic cloves, and pasta-it al reminded him that he had a home. An actual home.

Sometimes it felt too good to be true. Because like all good things, they eventually left.

"Alright," Alberto said to himself, wiping sweat from his forehead with his freehand. "Sauce should be good to go. But first. Taste test." He took the wooden spoon and dipped it into the sauce, which gave off a pleasing color somewhere between orange and red. He brought it to his lips and slurped unnecessarily. "Mmm." He smacked his lips. "Pretty good. Machiavelli, come taste my creation. I call it Tomatoes Explosion. Patent pending."

The cat was lounging under its usual place on the window sill. His ears perked up at the sound of the eighteen year old's voice and one of his eyes opened slowly as if taking its time at not wanting to deal with the waking world of idiots just yet. He let out a meow that sounded skeptical, a question.

"I know what you're thinking. No, there's no peanut butter in it this time. No, there's no shaving cream in it. And yes, I did wash my hands." He motioned the cat over with his spoon.

Shaking his head, Machiavelli stretched before slowly creeping along the counter to the stove. Through it all, he kept his eyes firmly on the pot, as if the contents inside would spring to life and devour Portorosso.

"Your confidence in my cooking is overwhelming," Alberto said, crossing his arms and drumming his fingers.

The cat simply harrumphed and rolled his eyes at his sarcasm.

When he came to the stove, Alberto lifted the spoon to Machiavelli's mouth. The cat only looked between the spoon and Alberto. You'd think he was making a life or death choice to either cut the blue wire or the red wire.

"Pleeeeaaase," the young man begged, giving the cat, what he thought, were his best puppy dog eyes. "For me? I want to make sure everyone out there likes it. And...I just want Luca to have a good meal on his first night back. It's been awhile since I've seen him and...I want him to be proud."

The house cat tilted his head to the side, raising, his ears hitching up as if saying Oh really?

"Um...and Giulia. Giulia too. Yep. Meant to add her." Even saying his name stirred something inside him. Whatever was happening in Alberto's stomach, it began to bubble like the sauce in the pan. It spread to his cheeks and he tried to convince himself that it was the heat of the kitchen that made him start sweating.

Machiavelli smirked. Smirked. Sometimes Alberto thought he could play an excellent villain in a 1940s cartoon. "What, you think I practiced making these meals just to impress Luca? I don't even know what gave you that idea. I'm appalled. I'm flabb...flubber...what's the word? Oh, whatever. Look, just taste it."

Strange. It was a common house cat for crying out loud, but if Machiavelli wasn't impressed (and he excelled at the art of not being impressed), it was hopeless. With a shaky hand, Alberto held the spoon to the lazy cat. His nerves screamed to snatch the spoon back, that the sauce wasn't done. But he remained steadfast in getting his approval.