Page 37 of The Cupid Chronicles

“Oh, my gosh.” Iris’s fork drops onto her plate with a clang. She goes quiet, leaning back in her chair. Is she choking?

“Are you—?” I stop short, frowning at her, worried she’s allergic to pine nuts or something.

But she holds up a hand to silence me, still chewing, not waiting to swallow the bite before asking, “Youmadethis?”

“Yes.” I’m confused by the question.

She looks at me. “This. Is. Amazing.”

I look back. The compliment is so genuine, it catches me off-guard.

Huh.

She takes a huge bite, and then, after only two chews, she mouths, “Ann you’re righ, dis doesn’t meed sall aht awl.”

Winnie brings her napkin up to her mouth to stifle another laugh. “Iris, you and I are going to get along just fine,” she chimes.

I’m shocked to realize I find her enthusiasm incredibly endearing. Iris doesn’t seem to take herself too seriously, and it’s refreshing. And she’s funny. If I wasn’t working so hard to remain straight-faced, I probably would’ve laughed too.

Chapter Eleven

Matteo

I feel exposed eatingmy own food with these two women—and a little embarrassed, given Iris’s reaction. I get the impression she’s been eating quick meals out of boxes, bags, and jars for most of her life.

She winds another long, coiled noodle around her fork. “Did you just come up with this on your own?”

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate this animated response.

“It’s a traditional dish,” I say, with a quick glance at each of them. “My grandma used to make it, but she never wrote anything down, so I’ve been trying to recreate as many of her recipes as I can. I have to decide if I should add it to the menu.”

“Yes,” Iris says firmly, shoveling in another bite. “Add. This. Right now.”

“It’s delicious,” Winnie says, in a much more dignified tone than Iris, who seems to have entered her own world.

“It’s insane. I didn’t know food could taste like this,” Iris says around another very large bite.

“That’s because you’ve been eating Tombstone pizza,” I say dryly, then take another bite. “I think the balance is off.”

“It’s not,” Iris says, mouth full. “I mean, maybe it is. I’ve never had it before, but if I had to choose a last meal”—she points at the plate with her fork—“this would be it.”

I chuckle to myself but conceal my smile. It’s nice. Even I can admit that. These days, I mostly stay in the kitchen rather than interact with customers, but I’d forgotten the joy of witnessing someone who appreciates my cooking.

Iris’s reaction shakes something inside me. A memory of something my grandma always said. “There must be joy in what you do, dear Teo.” She would move around her kitchen, tossing in spices, trying new things, tasting each dish with a kind of reckless abandon.

It’s not how I cook.

Not anymore.

Now I cook with calculated precision. My goal is to elevate cooking to an artform.

But here, watching Iris devour this meal, is a reminder that once upon a time, I fell in love with my grandma’s reasons for cooking. I wanted to carry on her tradition of bringing people together and making people happy. I wanted them tosavorsomething I’d made.

I used to cook for the joy of it, spurred on by the memories of big family meals. Of sharing stories and loud laughter. Whooping and hollering over hand-spun Old Country delicacies.

With my grandparents,everyonewas family. The table was always big enough for one more person, and there was always more than enough food for everyone. And always plenty of leftovers.

It’s like they picked up some tips from the guy who shared loaves and fishes.

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