The Spia Family Presses On

The Spia Family Presses On - By Mary Leo




Acknowledgments

I could never have done this book without the support and love from my family and friends. They nourish both my creativity and my need for someone to laugh and cry with. I’m blessed to have each and every one of them in my life.

Many thanks to Janet Wellington for her editing expertise, her spot-on suggestions and her unwavering friendship. More thanks to my writing buddies, Chris Green, Sylvia Mendoza, Cheryl Howe, Lorelle Marinello, Ann Collins, Ara Burklund, and Judy Duarte, who encourage me each and every time we meet. To my favorite roomie and cheerleader, Lisa Kessler, for convincing me to join her at the RT convention in Chicago where we made our pact. To Erin Quinn and Calista Fox who helped restore the joy of writing.

A special shout out to Laura Haug who accompanied me to Sonoma and to Italy so I could do all my research. Thanks for all your patience and laughter. To Liz Jennings who is possibly the sweetest, most generous woman I know and who helps run the absolute best conference in the entire world, the Women’s Fiction Festival in Matera, Italy. Thanks need to go out to Donna Bagdasarian who helped shape this book into what it is today. To my sweet daughter, Jocelyn Hughes, for her constant encouragement, her unbridled love and for making me a grandma to possibly the most remarkable baby girl on the planet . . . at least I think so. To her amazing husband and father of that remarkable baby girl, Paul Milton. To my talented and incredible son, Richard Hughes, who is always there whenever I need him.

To the members of RWA-San Diego. Hugs all around!

To my readers who really are the best!

To The Olive Press located in Sonoma, California, where all that golden liquid is made. A special thanks to Carol Firenze for her informative book: The Passionate Olive: 101 Things To Do with Olive Oil.

To Erin Kost Gentile and her amazing master-chef husband Giuseppe Gentile who provided some of the recipes in this book. If you’re ever in L.A. drop by their restaurant, Pizzeria il Fico, for an unbelievably delicious Italian meal.

And finally to my compassionate, encouraging, and loving husband, Richter Watkins, who helps make all my most seemingly unattainable dreams come true. Ti amo!





“Athena . . . posturing with Poseidon for dominion, sprung the first olive tree from the stone of the Acropolis . . . said the flesh of an olive was bitter as hate and scant as love, that it asked work to soften it, to squeeze the golden-green blood from it.”—A Thousand Days in Tuscany, Marlena De Blasi





ONE

The Freedom Party

I awoke out of my sleepy fog late Wednesday morning thinking now was the perfect time to take a vacation, a long vacation on an island somewhere with palm trees, white sandy beaches and suntanned, absurdly ripped single men all vying for my attention—a perfectly reasonable fantasy considering my pathetic life. I had been working nonstop for almost two years, a habit I’d gotten into after I gave up binge drinking and partying. My thirtieth birthday was fast approaching so it only seemed natural to take some time out to celebrate the momentous occasion.

Besides, I needed a break in a truly bad way. Our family business was finally in the black, and it was time to relax and allow myself some fun . . . sober fun. I was hoping that was still possible.

I considered getting out of bed and searching for island vacations on the Web, but the idea of it seemed taxing. Instead, I rolled over and snuggled in, wanting nothing more than to conjure up that white sandy beach with all those eager-to-please-me men when I heard someone running up my stairs and from the sound of those heavy footsteps, that person was in a hurry.

So much for sandy beaches and adoring men.

Grabbing my white terrycloth robe, I slid out of bed and made my way to the glass front door of my apartment where I saw my mother, Gloria Spia, holding onto the metal railing, looking as if those last few stairs were going to ruin her.

I swung open the door then held open the screen. I never locked either one at night; there wasn’t any need to. Living above Mom’s office, a converted two-car garage, on our olive orchard, the only people who had real access to this area of our land were relatives, a handful of trusted employees and close friends.

Mom never was one for strenuous physical exercise, like stairs. Her idea of a good workout was playing poker on Sunday afternoons with my two aunts and Federico, our groundskeeper.

“Mia,” she mouthed, but no actual sound came out, just heavy breathing.

My mom thought of herself as a tall, fifty-something—no one knew her precise age—slim woman trapped in a short, plump body. Because of this misconception, her sleeves and pant legs were always rolled up, and her blouses were always too tight. Today was no exception.

I pulled my rocking chair closer to the door, and she plopped down so hard I heard it creak under her weight.

“You are not going to believe who just called me,” she said, shaking her head then looking around me in the direction of my tiny kitchen. This was my cue to make the coffee. Mom had bought me my very own espresso machine for my last birthday knowing full well I only drank tea. She liked me to be equipped for her impromptu visits.

“Who?” I asked while preparing her a shot of espresso. I knew instantly whatever had her by the throat would require at least two shots, so I tossed in an extra scoop.

“I don’t understand how this could happen, Mia, especially now when this business is finally going to make us a sizable profit. It’s as if the son-of-a-bitch knew.”

The business she referred to was our olive oil business here in Sonoma, California. My family was into pressing and selling extra virgin olive oil, or EVOO as the now famous Rachel Ray would say.

“Mamma, talk to me.” I was leaning up against the faux granite countertop waiting for the machine to give up its last drops. When it finally gurgled, her face lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning and I knew she would relax with the first sip.

“What a sweet girl you are, going to all this fuss to make me a cup of espresso. You always know just what I need.”

I rolled my eyes, poured the double shot in a white demitasse and brought it over to her along with a rose-colored sugar bowl and her favorite tiny spoon, all presents from Mom. I then sat across from her on my cushy blue sofa, crossed my legs and leaned forward, eager to hear what she had to say.

She took a sip, made an umm sound and settled in the rocker, a small floral pillow tucked behind her lower back. She gave herself a little push with her foot and said, “It’s your cousin Dickey. He’s out.”

This was not particularly good news. Truth be told, this was bordering on dreadful news. Dickey’s “out” was not the gay kind of “out.” His “out” could only mean one thing: big trouble.

“Last time I heard, murder was a life sentence,” I said, hoping there had been some sort of mistake, that she had gotten the facts wrong.

“They found new DNA evidence that cleared him.”

Now don’t get me wrong, I was all about springing the innocent because of advanced forensic techniques, but not Dickey. If he wasn’t guilty of one crime there were ten more following close behind. “And this is a problem for you because?”

“He’s a shit, that’s why. He was never any good to anybody, especially to your Aunt Babe, who had the good sense to divorce his sorry ass a long time ago, but now he’s coming here.”

You know how they say a person can feel the hairs on the back of their neck stand up? Well, I swear I could feel each and every one of those little guys wiggling around.

I uncrossed my legs, rubbed my neck and sat up straight. Cousin Dickey was potentially a huge problem with a capital C as in Cosa Nostra. Not that my family didn’t have its share of Soprano knockoffs, it did. In fact the entire olive ranch was swarming with recovering mobsters and born-again Italians. But Cousin Dickey was different. Way different. For one thing, as far as I knew, he was still a practicing member of the mafia. Family lore said he even had ties to ‘Ndrangheta, the single most powerful society of organized crime in Italy, possibly the entire world.

And let us not forget that mobbed-up Cousin Dickey once owned all our land.

“Why would he come here? He knows how much Babe hates him.”

Mom sighed. “It has nothing to do with Babe, or so he says. Dickey wants me to throw him a freedom party. He said it was the least I can do.”

“A what?”

“A freedom party to celebrate his release.”

Normally, whenever someone in my family was sprung from prison they hid out for awhile, kept a low profile just to make sure another goon didn’t have an old vendetta to fulfill, but apparently Dickey felt confident enough to forgo the usual precautions. This fact alone was disconcerting, but I figured we still had a few months to plan a festive mobster gala, plenty of time to get used to the idea of him being a free man and coming back to the orchard. I was thinking we could possibly put this carnival off for like, forever.

“Maybe sometime in the spring or summer, if we’re not too busy,” I said.

“Don’t be silly. It’s tonight.”

My stomach pitched. This was getting completely out of control. “You’re not going to do it, are you?”

“What choice do I have? The bastard can cause me a lot of trouble if he wants to.”

“I thought that was all settled when he was locked up,” I told her, but my words didn’t seem to stick. She took a few more sips of espresso as she kept the chair rocking, faster now. I could see the tension building on her face. Her forehead actually moved, a nearly impossible achievement considering all the Botox that had been pumped into it.

“It was, but you know how your cousin can be.”

“A shit?”

“And then some.”

I sat back on the sofa, grabbed a pillow and contemplated our options. “Mom, he can’t come here. Not now. Not when we’re on our way to Hawaii.”

“Since when?” Her face brightened. I was on to something.

“Since right now,” I said, pumping up my enthusiasm. Not that I particularly wanted to go to Hawaii with my mom, but at this point I would do anything to keep her away from Dickey. “I was just about to make the reservations. I’ll take you and Aunt Babe with me. We can leave tonight.” I figured she’d jump at the chance for a free trip to paradise. Who wouldn’t?

She stared at me for a moment then blinked a few dozen times, a habit she indulged in whenever she was contemplating her options and wanted to stall. “I need another espresso,” she said, holding out her empty cup.

She was going to take some convincing. “Mom, you can’t get involved with him again.”

I didn’t know all the facts, but Dickey and my mom had owned some sort of business in North Beach in San Francisco when I was a kid. It took her several years to clear her name after the business dissolved, and even now she sometimes had trouble getting a line of credit.

“Don’t be silly. You sound like Federico. He said the same thing and I’ll tell you what I told him. I’m not getting involved. I’ll throw the bastard his party and that’s it. He’ll be gone in the morning.”

“You hope so,” I said.

“I know so,” she shot back in that voice she used whenever she needed to get her point across. Her intense reaction told me there had to be more to this story than she was willing to spill. Ever since I admitted I had a drinking problem, my mom tried to keep me in the dark when it came to family tensions. I suppose she thought any little crisis could get me going again. I tried to convince her it didn’t work that way, but Mom had her own opinions and nothing changed her mind.

I stood and went to the kitchen area to make her another espresso, and myself a cup of badly needed tea. When I returned, she was staring out the window. I handed her the espresso.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said attempting a bright smile. “I can take care of myself.”

Yeah, right. My mother was sharp when it came to running this business, but when it came to family and her emotions she was a bowl of mush.

Sitting on the sofa again while holding onto my mug of green tea, I leaned in closer to her this time, wanting desperately for her to reconsider the freedom party. I thought some kind, indulgent words might encourage her to see the error of her ways. I reached out and gently lay my hand on her knee, knowing how much my mom loved warm physical contact. “I know that, Mamma. You’re a strong, intelligent woman. You know how much I admire you. It’s everybody else that I’m not too sure about. Dickey is a powerful force. Perhaps you should reconsider this party.”

She swept my hand away, and sat back in the rocker. A triumphant look crossed her face. “That’s all in the past, Mia. We’re so over all that crime business. This family’s been through counseling!”

Mom looked at me as if I was completely out of the game. As if I should suddenly see the score and agree with her sound reasoning, but I couldn’t. Not where Dickey was concerned. After a moment, when I didn’t respond, she said, “I have far too much to do today to talk about this any longer. Could you please be a darling and run to the bank for me? I need some documents out of our box. Your Uncle Benny needs to go over a few things. Plus, I think a family meeting may be in order to discuss a couple details. I really have to start calling everybody as soon as I finish this lovely espresso you made me.”

I sat back and sipped my tea. I never could understand my mother’s reasoning, but I took comfort in knowing that this was true for most daughters throughout the world. None of us would ever be able to figure these women out. Mothers operated on some other frequency, and, according to one of my many past therapists, until I was a mother, I should stop bashing my head against that wall.

Fine.

But what was clawing at me at the moment was her sudden need for Uncle Benny, who wasn’t really an uncle. He was more of a family friend who used to be a lawyer for the Genetti crime family out of Chicago until Benny was forced into giving up incriminating information to the Feds in the late 80s. Most of the Genettis went to prison and Uncle Benny went undercover for awhile, hated it and came back out eight years ago when Mom took over this olive orchard. He’d been instrumental in getting the grove going again, helped plant a couple hundred trees, pruned them in the spring and helped with the harvest and the crush, like we all did.

“Mamma, is there something you’re not telling me?” I thought I’d give this thing one more try.

“Just be a good girl and get my papers. Oh, and Dickey’s ring. I kept it safe for him. It’s a gold and diamond pinky ring in the shape of a horseshoe.”

I hated when she shut me out.

“Fine. I have to go to Readers bookstore anyway. Lisa’s having a signing.” Lisa Lin was my best friend, and a best-selling author. “I’ll get the papers and the ring, but whatever this is about can probably be handled by our local law firm.” I found myself clutching my tea mug so tight my hands were beginning to hurt.

“All lawyers are crooks.”

I had to grin at that one. “Oh, and Benny isn’t?”

“He’s family, that’s different.”

Now why didn’t that give me any sense of comfort? I needed to tell her how wrong headed she was, how this whole thing sounded dicey, or at the very least, odd. Why would Dickey want her to throw him a party? Why here? And why tonight? She just wasn’t thinking clearly. Probably caught up in the excitement of the moment. My mother loved parties. The whole family did, but something about this party stunk, and it was my duty as her daughter to warn her of the endless complications of Dickey’s return.

I took a deep breath and said, “But—”

She held out a hand, a warning shot that I shouldn’t go any further. She’d been giving me “the hand” ever since I was a little girl, and even though I had grown way past puberty, Mom’s hand still had an effect on me.

I caved, resigned to fate.

“Please, just get the papers and bring them home. I already phoned Benny and he’ll be here in a couple hours.” She took another sip of espresso, a loud one this time, and her hand shook as she held the tiny cup to her melon colored lips.

“Mom, you’re shaking. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

She smiled one of those phony grins she slapped on her face whenever she was reeling on the inside and didn’t want anyone to know. “Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart. Everything’s perfect. I’ve just had too much espresso is all. Besides, if there is something wrong, and there’s not, Benny will take care of it. Just bring me my papers.” She gazed out the window for a moment then her entire demeanor turned deadly serious. “I only hope that bastard doesn’t try anything funny with this orchard,” she said. “Cause there’ll be hell to pay if he does.” Then she downed the entire cup of espresso and gently placed the cup back on its white saucer, her charm bracelet of diamond studded Elvises, a bracelet I hadn’t seen in years, clinked against the china.

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.