Perpetual Parmesan
Ken Mai | James Busby High School (2020)
The droplets swayed and swooned their way across the surface as the beetroot slouched, lifelessly against the edge. Its dancing bubbles glided across the pan as whispers of smoke faded into the vents above. A finalising dance of sorts, yet still performed in continuity, greased by a melting fat that dug itself into the folds of the little bird's wing. June (in St Tropez) was beautiful. For a long time, Lara and Charlie have been wanting to go. And here (I mean there), on the squeaky sand, the grains dug deep between our toenails as our heads were held high, smiling back at the sky above the French Riviera. On the next gas burner over, another duck sat and simmered in the vegetable oil. A crispness cutting into the other wing as the coating - soft bread - changed into crunchy bread crusted with Kosher salt. Charlie’s cashmere sweater also simmered in the laundry tub under the Bolognese sun - a swirling and crystalising reflection that intertwined and unravelled dreamy days we spent rolling and carving our names into parmigiano reggiano wheels. That was of course back in May of 2012, just before Emilia-Romagna’s skin uncrusted to life. At my stomach laid the porcelain, whilst my left hand gripped the golden wing; and right, the tender breasts. The reassembly was married with a rich and crimson beetroot and apple sauce, trailed by fake leaves and splots of black caviar pearls. Perfetto
Massimo, hai finito con il piatto?
[Massimo, are you done with the dish?]
quasi finito, Giuseppe
[Almost finished, Giuseppe]
Controlla l'ora, Giu assicurarsi che la cucina sia pronta per la chiusura
[Check the time, Seppe make sure the kitchen is ready for closing]
Lara’s high cut converse squeaked among the timber floors. My head pivots towards Giuseppe, as he paces towards me, taking with him the final dish. Then I hung up my apron. The front door shuts close, and the tables and chairs from the inside sit illuminated by fluorescent beams of a Maserati Levante seeping through the gaps of the door. Saint Barnabas’ bolognese bell-ring became slowly muffled out as we made our way out of the city center and were met with arching spring trees and gravel roads that tunnelled towards our Casa Maria Luigia.
She sat there, for three centuries now - aged in an unbroken cream facade and dressed by sage shutters. A cold sea-breeze seeped in the Modena air. My shoulders and legs jittered simultaneously at the benvenuto (welcome) mat in front of the door. The double oak doors welcomed us in; heated floors and an apricot infused sillage leaving a distinguishing confirmation that this was, indeed, home.
Lexi! Charlie!
I call upon their names, in return they are slouched on top of each other, sleepened by the crackling light from the fireplace. A quick peck on Lara’s cheek sends her to the bathroom to refresh herself. I sneakily bounce in between strides, upper soles on my feet pivot in matching rhythms to their breathing. Lexi lets out a faint squeak - awakening from her slumber. Their cheers drowned out by my hysterical laughter after having realised their father had returned home.
Lexi, com'era l'universit huh?
[Lexi, how was uni huh?]
Non avevo l'universit oggi, dovevo occuparmi di Charlie, ricordi?
[I didn't have uni today, I had to take care of Charlie remember?]
The lingering scent of parmigiano reggiano permeated my white double-breasted jacket, triggering Charlies stomach to churn and unravel. Usually, bowls and plates are left astray on the kitchen countertops, and that’s how I knew Charlie had his dinner. Though this time, not a single fork was laid on the kitchen counter as Charlie hadn't eaten. I turned towards the kitchen fridge and rummaged through each shelf to search for a tightly packed ball of dough that was wrapped in plastic. Peeking from behind me, however, was Charlie. He grabbed the wooden rolling pin and smashed the sourdough. Surprisingly, his technique was superb, already flatter than mine. I copied him - a double handed grip held like a rockstar about to floor his guitar. String by string, dust by dust, he carefully dusted the salami and parmesan on to his pizza. Parmesan, in the shape of a C; And the salami, in the shape of a B.
Charlie, sei pronto a metterlo in forno?
[Charlie, are you ready to put it in the oven?]
Ok
Che magnifico capolavoro, nemmeno i miei migliori chef possono farlo!
[What a magnificent masterpiece, not even my best chefs can make this! ]
Charlie and Lara sat there beside me. A celestial glow radiating down upon us as the marinara and parmesan sauces steamed to a rising release, above our smiles and above our moment.
Massimo Bottura
