Page 1 of When Love Gives You Lemons
ACT I
@LemonAtFirstSight 1d ago
Views: 1.9M
275.1K
AUDIO TRANSCRIPT:Fielder Lemon coming at you from popular hot spot the Sinking Venetian in Astoria, Queens! I went all out, bringing my ma,theQueen Giuseppina, to celebrate her birthday. We couldn’t resist dancing to this balls-to-the-wall menu, that raises necessary awareness about Venice, Italy, disappearing into the sea due to climate change and rising sea levels. What doesn’t disappear is the flavor! Every dish is themed, so we werenotdisappointed. Our outrageous six-course meal started with an aperitivo—bite-sized crispy polenta piled high with whipped ricotta topped with generous drizzles of hot honey and flaky sea salt—perfetto! That crunch! And the ricotta explodes with flavor. Served in a tiny gondola, it’s peak camp! Next was the antipasto: Creamy risotto with peas andstrawberries! Ma wasn’t expecting to like this, but she licked the bowl clean. The primo course was a black squid ink gnocchi topped with crispy fried sardines, and Ma was pawing at it like a raccoon in a dumpster! The sauce was wicked with garlic, and Ihadto soak my bread in it! For the secondo course, the most perfect, juicy filet mignon topped with a seafood ravioli that, once broken open, runs like an egg yolk down the meat, drenching it in a briny goodness. It wouldn’t be Venetian without a platter of imported cheeses and seasonal fruits, a palate cleanser beforetopping off with the dolce course: dark chocolate gelato that sinks into oblivion when creamy, warm espresso is poured over and topped with more flaky sea salt to bring out the warm nuttiness of the caffè!
Verdict? Inventive, confident, bellissima! Molto bene! Don’t wait! And, as always, when life gives you Lemons, take a bite!
Chapter 1
I Can Do It with a Broken Heart!
The houses of Blossom Avenue are lost to time, ripped straight from an old sepia-filtered photo from the 1970s, which is precisely how long Nonna has lived here. Most are built of faded red brick, wooden doors with small stained-glass windows, and two-tone seafoam-green porch overhangs. Weather-worn American flags hang over rusted wrought iron railings that lead up from cracked cement walkways. Two houses smack-dab in the center of Blossom Avenue have matching washed-out Italian Pride and Pride flags. Which, dear reader, are two entirely separate flags.
One of those houses is the Lemon house.
The other belongs to the DeLucas.
I make it a point not to look atthathouse as I pull into the driveway, instead channeling my attention to the thousands of notifications from my latest video on (the popular app that could very well be banned by the United States government by the time you read this, and, if not,oh wellbecause henceforth it shall be known as) the Clock App.
External validation is not only delicious; it’s nutritious, too. Tastes a lot like Nonna’s Sunday sauce—a garlicky ragù with fresh mint that zings on the palate, the smell of which wafts out from a rickety open window in our modest brick house, lead paint chips peeling off its frame.
Immediately, my phone is out and recording as I burst inside—my followers love home-cooked family dinner content, especially Nonna’s famous meatballs.
“Fielder’s home!” Ma shouts to Nonna, who is streaming old episodes ofThe Price Is Rightat such a loud volume I’m surprised there hasn’t been a noise ordinance.
“You get me for the whole day.” I stop recording and swipe open the remote app on my phone, lowering the TV volume. Right on cue Nonna cries out as if an axe murderer broke into the living room.
Ma snickers. “It’s like a special occasion or something!” Italian guilt, her specialty. She acts like I don’t live here.
“I saw youall dayyesterday, remember?” I kiss her cheek and hand her a potted flower. It’s been our tradition since I was small to help her plant new flowers in Nonna’s garden every year on her birthday. “I have the rest of the flowers in the trunk of my car. Went out early for a run and then Home Depot for plants and soil.”
“Such a good boy I raised!” She pinches my cheeks, then slaps them for good measure. “Go get Nonna out of that damn chair. I keep telling her to move around; she’s gonna get sores on her ass.”
“All right.” I wave her away and stop at the window over the kitchen sink. From here, I can see straight into the DeLucas’house. Nobody is home. No cars in the driveway. A For Sale sign in the front yard. Mr. and Mrs. DeLuca have been down in South Carolina on and off sincehegraduated last year. Sienna,hisolder sister, hasn’t lived here in Westchester since I was in middle school, and—
“Oh!” Ma exclaims, stirring the pot of Nonna’s tangy sauce bubbling on the stovetop. “Guess who I saw this morning at church!”
My chest tightens and I stop breathing. Every time she says this, I think she’s going to sayhisname.
“Zia Gabriella. She says you don’t call her.”
“Ma, Ijusthad lunch with Zia Gab two Saturdays ago.” Or was it three? “You see your sister all the time.”
“Be nice to me today. It’s my birthday. I’m twenty-two times two today.”
“You don’t look a day over eighteen times two,” I say, checking notifications, swiping through and responding to comments and DMs.
She says nothing, and I don’t know how long she’s standing in front of me waiting for me to look up, but when I do, she plucks my phone from between my fingers so swiftly I don’t register it. Ma’s got expert spy skills. If you’ve ever met a scorned Italian woman, you’ve basically met a trained assassin.
“Hey!”
“You’re on this thing too much. You’re missing life, Field.” She shakes her head in disappointment the way only an Italian mom could.
“No, I’m not. I hate when people say that.” Anxiety bubbles inside me. I reach for my phone, but she swivels out of reach.
