It’s Hot in Here

Bettina uses the brick oven even in the summertime. The heat wraps you in a sweat even though the kitchen is in the basement hidden from the sun. A film of stickiness covers Franny’s face as she mashes anchovy sauce with a mortar and pestal. Bettina doesn’t sweat. Even with her wild mane of hair swirling around her neck and stretching up toward the ceiling in curling tendrils like a sweet pea vine grabbing for a bit of fence. Bettina cooly chats on the phone with a mystery caller. The same one who calls every night. Franny knows it’s the same one because Bettina says the same things.

“Oui, oui , oui! …But no! I live here now. Si, si…je ne sais pas…ma dai!”

Franny only speaks one language but she knows three languages when she hears it. She got an “F” in French in high school and didn’t even try taking a language in college. She left college after one year. Failing. But culinary school let her in. She’s not very good at that either.

“Franny! That’s enough. We don’t want our guests to drink the garum, only to put it on the lamb. Time to twist the bread dough. Bring it here. I show you how to do it.”

She says “it” like “eet.” Franny prays that Bettina won’t notice how bad she is at all this. This internship makes her feel legitimate. Eases the struggle of class everyday. When she makes the broccoli soup too watery at school, at least she can come here and sweep the floor properly.

“You are a dough person. I can see that even if you cannot. Don’t be afraid of dough. It is just like you. Alive and fresh.”
She pulls off a piece from the mass of dough that overflows a large ceramic bowl and hands Franny a cantaloupe-sized portion.
“This piece you take home to keep. Use it like a pillow tonight, sleep into it, get to know it.”

She plops the dough in Franny’s hands. The cool flesh of the bread goo soothes her palms. She gives it a little squeeze. It squeezes back. Franny smiles in surprise.
“Yes,” Bettina says. “You can make friends with bread while it is new like this, while it is still a baby.”