The Queen of Minor Disasters (9 page)

4)
     
Add salt, pepper, and basil. Simmer on medium heat
for one hour, stirring occasionally.

* Any leftover sauce can be frozen in an air-tight
container for up to 1 month.

For the pasta:

1 pound of rigatoni

1 pound of fresh ricotta
cheese

1
       
cup of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese (grated)

1)
     
Bring 10 cups of salted water to boil. Cook the
rigatoni for 10-12 minutes, until al dente.

2)
     
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

3)
     
Pour one ladle of sauce onto the bottom of a large
baking dish.

4)
     
In a large bowl, toss pasta, ricotta cheese, and
1/2 cup Parmigiano Reggiano cheese together. Add enough sauce to coat the
pasta. Toss again.

5)
     
 Pour pasta into prepared baking sheet. Top with
the rest of the cheese.

6)
     
Cover loosely with aluminum foil and bake in oven
for 20-25 minutes.

7)
     
Uncover the baking dish and cook for an additional
5 minutes (or until pasta gets golden brown).

*Technically there is no meat in the meat sauce. We
call it meat sauce because you can add meatballs to it, which gives it an
amazing flavor.

The next morning I awake to
the smell of bacon frying. My mother’s already dressed, her short dark hair
freshly washed and neatly combed. She is making her fantastic bacon and eggs,
and the smell radiates through the kitchen and tickles my nose in the den.

I follow it into the kitchen.
“Good morning,” I grumble and look at the clock; it’s 8:30. I don’t know why my
mother gets up so early. It’s Saturday for God’s sake.

“Good morning,” she says.
“Your father and I are having breakfast on the deck, do you want to come out?”

“Sure,” I say fixing myself a
cup of steamed milk from the stove. I pour a shot of espresso into it and swirl
it around on the counter top. Then I look at the spread that my mom has made.
There’s crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, and rosemary grissini.  “How long
have you been awake?”

“Since five.”

I look at my mother to make
sure she’s okay. Usually she’s a really late sleeper, and, like me, my mom uses
a sort of food therapy when she’s stressed. Only instead of eating the food,
she just cooks it. “Are you ok?”

“Yes, why?” she asks, as if
it’s normal to get up at five on a Saturday morning. She turns back to the
stove and fixes a plate for my dad. Then she takes a mug and fills it with hot
milk and espresso for herself and moves through the kitchen. I follow her.
We’re almost in the den when she turns, looks at my empty hands, and says,
“You’re not eating.”

To my mother, not eating can
only mean two things: snobbery or sickness. Once, Drew’s parents came over for
dinner and his mother didn’t clean her plate (she’s one of those women who is
perpetually pushing food around on the plate to make it look like she’s
eating). This was the greatest offense to my mother, who, from then on,
referred to Drew’s mother as “la strega,” roughly translated as “the bitch.” I
tried to lie and say that she was sick, but my mom saw through the entire thing.

Obviously, I’m no snob, so
according to her theory, I must be sick. Forget the fact that I might just not
be hungry. Before she can check my pulse and diagnose me with depression, I
walk back into the kitchen, grab a breadstick, and take a hearty bite.

“I’m just tired,” I say and
with my mouth full.

She seems content with my
answer because she turns and walks through the den, and out the sliding doors.

“Good morning Stella,” my dad
says when he sees me. He’s reading the newspaper and already sipping on a mug
of hot coffee. My mom places the plate down in front of him. “How did you
sleep?”

“Ok.” I take a seat facing the
water

“Did you hear Roberto Lancetti
is back from Italy?” my mom says looking at me.

“Yes, you told me.” I take a
sip of coffee and stare out at the bay.

“Maybe you should give him a
call,” my dad begins. “You can go to the beach together or something.”

I try my hardest not to roll
my eyes. Honestly, my dad still acts as if I’m twelve and all I care about is
body surfing until the sun goes down. Doesn’t he know that I’m a mature,
hardworking, career-driven woman?

“That’s a great idea,” my mom
nods.

“I don’t
want
to go to the beach with Roberto
Lancetti!” I whine. “I just want to be left alone.”

I can already imagine what
would happen if I did call Roberto. He’d greet me in Latin and then look at me
from behind his dorky glasses, waiting for a response, to which I would say
“Mihi licet ire ad latrinum,” which translates to “may I use the bathroom,”
which is the only phrase I retained from three monotonous years of high school
Latin. Of course, he’d then go off (in Latin) about the bathrooms in ancient
Rome—or something equally as enticing—and I’d literally die of boredom. I’d
rather not.

“Stella, we just want you to
have a friend. We know this is a hard time for you.” My dad looks at me with
sincerity. Obviously they have no idea about my master plan to win Drew back.

“I’m totally fine,” I snap.
“In fact, I’m pretty sure that in a few weeks everything will blow over and
Drew and I will get back together.” I replay the details of Gina’s master plan
in my head. Like I said, that girl is good.

My parents look at each other.

“Stella, why don’t you try to
forget him? Move on with your life,” my dad suggests.

Honestly, they are taking this
a little far. I mean, we broke up a week ago. They’re acting as if it’s been
months.

“Dad, there’s really no need
to lecture me. If Mom dumped you, would you just try to move on?”

My parents look at each other
again.

“Stella, he’s not right for
you. It’s for the best,” my dad says.

“Look at his family,” my
mother chimes in. “They’re a bunch of stuck up snobs.”

“Oh, and I suppose someone
like Roberto Lancetti
is
good for
me?” I stand up from the table. “Get this straight,” I say with conviction. “I
will never date Roberto. Never.”

I walk back into the house,
wishing that I had someplace to go besides the den. It’s not as dramatic of an
exit when you’re only walking a few feet away, and there’s not even a door you
can slam.

After the fight with my
parents, I spent the rest of the morning on Craigslist, looking at New York
City apartments. Honestly, Drew was right, I need to move out of my parents’
house, even if it means spending 1,500 dollars a month to live in an East
Harlem two bedroom with three other girls and seven cats, which, by the way,
was my best option. I’m waiting for them to email me back. Apparently by the
time I left for work, seventeen other people were interested and we may get
into a bidding war. I’m remaining hopeful.

Now it’s 9:30 and service is
almost over. Even though it’s a Saturday night, nothing, and I mean nothing
noteworthy happened. What a waste of a perfectly good dress. I’ll have to trash
all of tonight’s video and at this rate, I’ll never get this YouTube clip up
and running. Maybe it’s for the best.

When I told Gina about the
whole idea, she was totally against it, saying that it was borderline creepy
and how would I feel if Drew sent me a link of himself at work. I didn’t tell
her, but actually, I’d kind of like it. I’ve always wondered what they do at
those board meetings.

The phone rings as I’m saying
good-bye to Mrs. Junip and her friends. You’d think that a table of five
cougars would have made some sort of scene, but not even Frankie could capture
their attention. I think one of them is going through a divorce because they
were all somber looking and kept saying things like “you’re better without him”
and “ milk him for all he’s worth.” The saddest part was that the woman in
question looked totally out of touch with her friends. You could just sense
that she wasn’t listening to them, but since she didn’t confide in me, I wasn’t
about to just send over the chocolate cake.

“Thank you for calling
Lorenzo’s, how may I help you?”

“Hi, is this Stella?” a male
voice asks me.

“Yes.”

“Hey Stella. It’s Rob.”

I frantically start thinking
of all the regulars who come in, yet I can’t think of anyone named Rob. I’m
about to pretend like I know who it is, when the voice stops me.

“Lancetti,” he says and I can
tell he’s smirking on the other end.

I’m so going to kill my
mother.

“Oh, hi! How was Italy?”

“It was great. Listen, I need
to make a reservation for tomorrow night. Do you have 7:00 available for two?”

“Are you bringing your dad in
for Father’s Day? I ask as I scan the reservation book. We don’t have room, but
I’ll have to squeeze them in somehow. My parents take personal offense if I
ever deny one of their friends a seat.

“Oh shit, tomorrow is Father’s
Day, isn’t it?” he pauses as though he’s thinking. “Um, okay forget it. I’ll see
if she’s free next weekend.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll let you know. Thanks,”
he says and hangs up without waiting for a reply. Weird.

 I walk through the dining
room looking for Lucy and finally find her in the kitchen laughing with
Lorenzo.

“What’s going on?” I ask and
they both seem to jump a bit.

“Nothing, we’re just laughing
at something dumb this lady at my table said,” Lucy replies. I wait a second
for her to tell me what the lady said but she stays silent.

Ok.

“Do you want to grab a drink
after work?” I ask. “We can keep it chill and just go to Bob’s.”

Bob’s is the biggest dive bar
on the planet and only exists on the Island because it’s been there for like
fifty years or something. Basically it is a small, windowless room with a huge
center bar. The only entertainment is an old Jukebox filled with songs from the
seventies and eighties, but the drinks are nice and strong. Lucy and I love the
place.

“I don’t know,” she hesitates.
“My family is all in town for Father’s Day.”

Since Lucy’s mom died her
family has gotten really close and always seems to be around for holidays, no
matter what they are. I totally understand, but still, I haven’t really gotten
a chance to talk to Lucy all week.

“Please. Just one drink. I
really need it.”

“Why don’t we just have a
drink here?” she suggests, even though she knows it’s not the same.

“Fine,” I say because I’m not
into begging.

Sunday mornings are always a
rush to get to church, no matter what time Mass starts, and this morning is no
different. It’s Father’s Day, so there will be extra people filling the pews at
St. Luke’s and my mom seems on edge. She hovers over me while I sip my coffee.

“It’s 9:
35
,” she says.