The Spia Family Presses On Page 2

  I left my mother sitting in my rocking chair sipping her third cup of double espresso, decaf this time, while I took a quick shower, weighed myself like always—one-twenty, almost the ideal weight for my five-foot-four inch frame—got dressed in a comfy, black velour Juicy Couture tracksuit with a cute little sprinkling of silver stones, over a pink Banana Republic tee, and pulled on cozy, chocolate colored Uggs. Just because I lived on an olive ranch didn’t mean I didn’t do fashion. Granted, Juicy Couture and Banana Republic weren’t exactly high end, but at least they were still in the game. I then hurried through a decent amount of makeup—lip gloss, mascara and blush—and pulled my unmanageable dark-brown hair up into a wet pony tail. Thankfully, by the time I was presentable Mom had finished her espresso and disappeared.

  Nothing like a morning visit from my stressed-out mother to brighten my day.

  But I refused to let my family throw a bomb into my otherwise happy vacation mood. Taking in a few cleansing breaths, I crossed my studio apartment to the kitchen area. I needed my morning tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil in a bad way. Just one tablespoon per day on an empty stomach kept my skin glowing, my digestive system working, and connected me to Sofia Loren who, it was said, had the same morning ritual.

  I opened the cupboard and pulled out an unopened bottle of our award winning Sevillano, made mostly from a Spanish olive with a nutty flavor and a medium intensity. At any one time, I kept about five to ten open bottles of various types of Spia’s Olive Press oils in my cupboard. We all did. Olive oil was our life.

  I uncorked it and took in the fragrant scent, then poured a generous tablespoon into a tiny plastic cup, the same ones we used in our tasting room. In order to get the full effect of an olive oil you needed to pour some on your tongue, then clench your teeth and suck it to the back of your throat. It could have a pleasantly bitter taste, like some Italian oils, or a smooth nutty flavor, like a few of the Spanish oils or even a bright fruity flavor with a subtle peppery finish ideal for salad greens, or grilling seafood.

  Whenever I thought about our oils, I mentally practiced the description that went with them. It took me months to get the hang of sounding like I knew what I was talking about as opposed to an olive oil greenhorn, which was one of the nicer things my family said about me.

  This one was a perfect blend, with just a hint of bitterness for added flavor. Now olive oils acted as aroma therapy on me, and Sevillano was one of my favorites. It usually made me feel all blissful, and sexy, but no matter how much I inhaled its pungent fragrance or felt the smooth golden liquid on my tongue, I couldn’t quite get that feeling going.

  Just as well, there was no one around to be blissfully sexual with.

  I sighed, poured enough oil in a frying pan to coat the bottom, tossed in a little chopped garlic and let that cook for a bit. Then I added onion and cilantro, tossed that around until the onion became opaque and the garlic was just about to brown. I threw in two handfuls of pre-cooked linguini, broke an egg into a bowl, whisked until it began to foam then added it to the pan. I stirred that around in the hot oil until the egg was almost cooked, tossed in chunks of a buttery avocado, a chopped Roma tomato, a little water, more olive oil, a three-finger pinch of hot pepper flakes, and two cranks of black pepper. When the egg was cooked through, I slipped the steaming pasta mixture into a yellow bowl, drizzled our hot pepper Italian blend olive oil over it, sprinkled on a mixture of chopped fresh Italian parsley, spring onions, pitted Gaeta olives, and finely grated parmesan cheese. Then I sat down to feast. I was desperate for some comfort food.

  Cooking always seemed to sooth me. It was one of the few domestic chores that I had mastered during my quest for sobriety. The entire sensory experience somehow gave me just enough of a diversion that while I was cooking I didn’t crave booze. I could get through anything as long as I could mix, chop, fry, bake, and boil.

  At times I even fantasized about writing a cookbook for recovering alcoholics that praised the therapeutic benefits of meal preparation using olives and olive oil. I would call it: One Olive at a Time. . . a cook’s guide to addiction recovery.

  Of course, I’d have to add a few side notes. It wouldn’t be just recipes. The recovering alcoholic would have to know which meals to prepare during their various levels of alcohol need. Take, for instance, after a mother’s visit. Depending on the amount of mother intrusion, the stress factor might only be a level one. Thirty minutes in the kitchen along with a twenty-minute eating fest should be all that was required.

  However, I sometimes had a real problem during the actual meal. Swapping out a hearty red wine for sparkling water could be a hardship for some people—especially for a good Italian girl like me who grew up thinking wine was just another fruit juice—but determination would win out. And like me, the recovering cook would sit at his or her table, pour the sparkling water, and prepare themselves to indulge in my all time favorite breakfast.

  I breathed in the seductive aroma of onions, olives and cheese. My mouth watered as I twirled the steaming pasta on my fork, which was pressed up against a spoon, the only way to successfully twirl slippery linguini.

  “Umm,” I moaned aloud right before I took my first bite.

  That’s when my stomach flipped, cramped and generally turned into a ball of pain.

  Dickey!

  Just thinking about him ruined my appetite. I got up, slid my plate into the fridge, popped a couple antacids, and started up my laptop to check out flights to Hawaii. I found one on Travelocity that left Sunday night from SFO at ten-thirty. I bought the flight and an extravagant hotel room right on the beach in Maui. I told myself that no matter what happened I was getting on that plane, and nothing or no one was going to stop me.

  Pasta a la Gloria - Level One or Two

  2 cups of cooked fresh linguini

  1 clove garlic, crushed and chopped

  1 tbs. finely chopped onion

  2 to 4 tbs. chopped cilantro, depending on your palate

  1/4 tsp. salt

  1/2 chunked avocado

  1 Roma tomato (chop half, reserve the rest)

  2 tbs. Sevillano EVOO

  1 to 2 tbs. Gaeta pitted olives (or olive of choice)

  2 tbs. freshly grated Parmesan cheese

  1 tbs. chopped spring onions (optional, but more chopping is always good)

  1 tsp chopped fresh Italian parsley (optional, but again…)

  1/2 tsp. hot pepper flakes (optional, but hot peppers act as a stimulant)

  Hot-pepper blend EVOO

  You can use cold linguini or linguini that has been cooked for about three minutes. Fresh linguini cooks faster than packaged linguini, and if you want to turn this dish into a level three need, make your own pasta. *Recipe follows. Fry the garlic in a pan with the oil until the aroma of the garlic permeates the air. Do not let it brown. Add the spices and cook for less than a minute, savoring the sights and smells. Add the pasta with about 1/8 cup pasta water or tap water. Flip and mix to get all the flavors to penetrate the pasta. Add the avocado and chopped tomato to the pan to heat through. Give it another flip and serve in a flat green, white or yellow bowl. Garnish with the mixture of cheese, cilantro, and the chopped Gaeta olives, or any mild flavorful olive. Drizzle on the hot pepper oil. Slice up the remaining fresh tomato and place it in the center of the pasta a la Gloria with a sprig of parsley or cilantro or both. Presentation is key. This dish is perfect anytime you’re feeling tense, and can also be used as a reward on a Sunday morning to congratulate yourself for having made it through yet another Saturday night, stone sober. There’s enough for two, so share the fun.

  TWO

  Whose Land Is This, Anyway?

  I drove my cherry-red pickup down Arnold Drive through Glen Ellen, turned on Madrone Road passing Valley of the Moon winery, then turned right onto Highway 12 toward the city of Sonoma. The grapevines along the highway were in full autumn glow, with more dazzling shades of yellow, bright orange and sienna than most years. Fortunately, the road was nearly
free of cars so I could glance at the ribbons of color against the backdrop of deep-green mountains without killing myself or anyone else.

  I lowered the windows to let the wind race through the cab. My mind wandered to the beach in Maui as I passed the Russo vineyard. It was home to the man I had a love-hate relationship with. We were in the hate stage at the moment, having broken up four months ago after a weekend that nearly put me back in rehab. Leonardo Russo was the man I lusted over, woke up dreaming about, and wanted so bad it hurt.

  Leo and I were like fire and kindling when we were together, hot being the operative word here, both with our sexual encounters and our ability to party on. A real shame considering I truly loved the man, but he was bad news as far as my sobriety was concerned. I was trying to focus in on that negative fact as I slowed to cruise by and fantasize about any future possibilities. It was just then that I saw two men standing toe-to-toe talking out on the front porch of the tasting room, a large two-story clapboard painted gray with white trim.

  I pulled over, thinking one of the men was Leo, and already I could feel the tingle in my toes. I hadn’t seen him in awhile, but the man still had a powerful effect on me. Perhaps a little wine buying might be in order for Dickey’s freedom party. There could never be enough wine at one of our family events.

  Leo’s Pinot Noir had won a gold medal at Vinitaly. I figured heartfelt congratulations would serve as my opening act, just a bit of friendly conversation between two neighbors.

  I knew my limits, sort of. And anyway, it wasn’t as if I could start anything up again with him anyway. I’d heard he had a new girlfriend, a Marley or Sharley or something. She lived over in Napa. A wine critic or a food critic. I wasn’t sure of all the details, not fully wanting to admit that he had already moved on, but I did know she had a fat ass according to Aunt Babe who was somewhat of an expert on fat asses, having one herself.

  The sun was in my eyes as I stared at him. His rich brown hair seemed longer than usual, and there was quite a bit of facial hair going on, most likely due to Marley or Sharley’s insistence because the Leo I knew shaved at least twice a day, but it was Leonardo all right. I mean, if it wasn’t, he looked enough like him to be his brother, and as far as I knew, Leo didn’t have a brother.

  I let out a long, slow lustful sigh, completely envious of fat-ass Marley or Sharley or whatever the hell her name was. And what was wrong with my ass anyway?

  I sighed again hoping he would notice my pickup. It was obvious this truck belonged to me: I rode around with my olive-picking ladder sticking out of the back. A prerequisite this time of year; one never knew when they would be called on to start picking.

  For a moment, he glanced my way, but there was absolutely no sign of recognition.

  Fine.

  What did I care.

  I shifted my gaze. The other man didn’t look familiar. He was much smaller than Leo, both in height and weight, had thick, gray hair combed straight back, and wore a shirt the same color as the autumn leaves.

  He must be a tourist.

  I was just about to back up so I could head for the driveway, thinking my mother would truly appreciate a case of wine, when the man started poking Leo’s chest. Leo slapped the man’s hand away and I knew from my many years of watching my volatile relatives, these two guys were in the heat of a battle.

  I watched for another moment as arms flailed, and tempers elevated to a point where another man came out to try and put a stop to their escalating argument. I was thinking perhaps this was not the optimum time for a visit, so I pulled back on the road, thankful to let the temptation pass.

  When I arrived at the bank just off the Plaza in the village of Sonoma fifteen minutes later, the parking lot was almost empty. I figured I could get in and out in no time. I so didn’t want to run into anyone I knew because I was lousy at hiding things and I simply had no stomach for spilling my guts about Dickey’s release.

  I parked the Ford, hurried inside and found forty-something Liz Harrington eager to escort me to Mom’s safety deposit box. My name was on all my mom’s accounts. “Just in case I get hit by a bus,” she’d say. The likelihood of my mom getting struck down by a bus in Sonoma was equal to her getting hit by a meteor. The woman hardly left the orchard, and when she did, someone else would drive her. She wouldn’t even cross the street in the village without an escort let alone walk somewhere alone in the presence of crazed bus drivers.

  But she insisted, so there I was doing her banking with the help of surly Liz Harrington who, for some inexplicable reason, seemed eager to please.

  “I hear your cousin Dickey was released from Soledad yesterday,” she surreptitiously inquired as we walked toward the back of the bank, her well-worn cowboy boots clicking on the gray tile floor.

  “That was quick,” I answered. Sonoma Valley was like any other small town. News traveled through it like wildfire in a dry forest.

  “I also heard your family is throwing him a party tonight. Boy, I’d like to be a fly on the wall at that one.”

  “It should be pretty boring,” I muttered with indifference, hoping she would get the message that I didn’t like where this conversation was heading. It was bad enough that I came from a family of aging ex-mobsters, but did I have to hear about it even from my banker?

  “Not the way I heard it.”

  I couldn’t resist. “And what was that?”

  “You have relatives flying in from all over the country to be there,” she said as we walked into a small, stuffy room, the walls lined with tiny metal doors, each one with double key holes.

  The woman knew more than I did about my mother’s plans. “Not likely, but you know how families are,” I told her trying to sound as if my family was as normal as the next guy’s.

  “No. How are they?” Her head bobbed in a curiously disjointed way. I stared at her wondering if that movement was natural or was it some old neck injury that had never quite mended properly. Either way, it seemed like something she should get fixed “I grew up in an orphanage and the only parents I ever knew died from a crack overdose when I was ten. I never married, never had kids and from the looks of it, I won’t be getting those things any time soon.”

  While she spoke I was thinking that perhaps it was her neck injury that had turned her into such a disagreeable woman.

  Or not.

  I decided to go for a more holistic approach. “Love can come when you least expect it.”

  “That’s a bunch of baloney,” she said bitterly.

  I smiled, not having a good comeback for that one, so I let the silence of the airless room take over.

  We turned our keys in the locks. I slid the box out of the slot, and Liz Harrington stood a little too close-by, key in hand, while I went through Mom’s things. I could smell the shot of bourbon she’d mixed in with her coffee that morning, and the sweet cologne she had sprayed on her clothes to cover it up. It made me feel a little sorry for her. I knew all about the need to smooth out the day.

  I found the papers Mom had asked for, along with my dad’s simple gold wedding band, Mom’s matching wedding band, a couple of photos, a picture of me in first grade missing a front tooth, some little girl I’d never seen before who was also missing a front tooth, a small mesh bag filled with gold coins and a larger one containing silver change—Mom’s security just in case the economy took a real dump and paper money became worthless—and Dickey’s flashy ring. For some reason, I remembered the ring, but not on Dickey’s finger. I stared at it for a few seconds, trying to visualize who else could have worn it, but nothing came to me.

  I thought about when Mom had put all these things in this box when we first moved here. How sad she was, and how much I still missed my dad. He had left on a business trip while we were still living in North Beach—I was twelve, way before we moved to Sonoma—and had simply disappeared. Mom hired a private detective to find him, someone not connected to our ever-growing family, but we never saw him again.

  Not that this was anything n
ew to a mob family, but my dad had always tried to steer clear of “family” matters so I never had the impression he was actually connected, at least that was the innocence of my childhood. Somewhere during my late teens I finally realized the truth, everyone around me was connected.

  Still, he was different than Uncle Benny or Uncle Ray who were Made Men since they were in their twenties.

  My dad loved to make people happy, and loved to cook. Almost every Sunday afternoon he’d boil up a few pounds of pasta, fry about fifty meatballs, throw them in a rich tomato sauce, then make a mountain of salad and invite everybody he knew over for dinner. Those were some of my best memories, and most likely where I got my love of cooking.

  I took out the ring and the papers Mom had asked me to fetch, put everything back into the box, slid the box back into its slot, turned the key, and Liz stepped forward and did the same. I told her thanks and to have a nice day. She threw me a tepid smile, never uttering another word, thank God, and I walked out of the bank.

  I still had a little time before I had to be at the bookstore for Lisa’s book signing, so I decided a stop at Maya, a Yucatan restaurant off of the Plaza. Maya’s was located on the historic Sonoma Plaza on the corner of East Napa and First, a stone’s throw from Readers bookstore. I felt actual hunger pangs and thought I’d stop in for one of their prawn enchiladas in a cream sauce with sweet peppers, onions, cilantro and rice. It had to be one of my favorite lunches. That and a Maya Margarita made with agua fresca (whatever juice the bartender squeezed that morning . . . guava was my absolute fave) served in a chilled martini glass. I drank it sans the tequila, a concession I’d made with myself months ago.

  When I stepped inside the colorful restaurant with the stone walls and polished cement floor, the hostess greeted me with a friendly smile and asked if I would be sitting at the bar or a table. I opted for a table. The bar, better known as the Temple of Tequila, was far too much of a temptation. I’d spent many a night worshiping at the Temple with tequila flights lined up in front of me. All I wanted now was a quiet spot to read.