Prologue

My grandmother is stirring the soup. “It’s almost ready,” she says without turning around. “You want some?”

It’s a Thursday night and I’m in New Jersey visiting my father and stepmother and grandmother. I usually take the half-hour bus ride from New York City to Nutley every week, but I haven’t been here once in the past month. I call on Sundays, but none of them is much for the telephone. My father and stepmother don’t like to chat, and Nonna frets about my phone bill, no matter how many times I tell her my cell phone is free all weekend.

“Sure,” I say. “What are you making?”

“Stracciatella alla Romana,” she says. “But this is only stock. I haven’t added the rest yet.”

When I was young, my father used to take the family out to dinner once a week. After my grandfather died and my mother ran off with her gynecologist—the same year, when I was nine— my grandmother moved in with us, and she scoffed at this habit. Mediocre restaurant food, she declared, was soul destroying. “In the same amount of time it takes to go to a ristorante I could mash nice plum tomatoes with a little garlic in some good olive oil and have a fine, simple meal. Why waste time and money on food that is no good? Non lo gradisco. I will not do it!”

In Nonna’s kitchen, life was pared down to its simplest elements: flour, yeast in water, an egg. I loved coming home to a warm kitchen, the windows steamed from baking, the presence of a woman who didn’t seem to wish she was elsewhere. I was grateful to her for taking care of us. She sewed buttons on my father’s shirts; grew herbs in the yard; baked taralli, spicy cookies, in the afternoons. I’d stand by the stove and watch her make tiny meatballs, the size of large marbles, and plump gnocchi from scratch. As soon as I was old enough to wield a knife, I began to help her—as I’d never helped my mother, who didn’t teach me anything about food, who equated cooking with indentured servitude—by chopping vegetables. “Taglilo sottile. Slice it thin,” Nonna would say, handing me a garlic clove. “Like a fingernail.”

I learned the importance of the soffritto, the first step in many Italian dishes, a foundation of flavor: Put olive oil or butter in the bottom of the pan and add finely chopped onion. Cook it slowly, stirring often, then add a sprinkle of fresh garlic, which will turn a pale gold. The next step, insaporire, or “to bestow taste,” involves adding parsley, celery, carrots, possibly some ground meat. If the soffritto is not cooked precisely, the flavor of the dish will be compromised. The onions must be sautéed until they are translucent. The garlic must not be allowed to burn.

“You have il regalo,” Nonna told me one steamy August evening before I left for college. The gift. A light touch, an instinctive ability to substitute and improvise. I knew I had it—it was one of the few things I was certain I did well. Though hopeless at chemistry in the classroom, I intuitively understood the alchemy of cooking. Once I learned the basics, the soffritto and the insaporire, I was on my way.

Nonna is eighty-eight now, and she moves  slowly.  Yet despite all the changes of the past fifteen years—I moved to New York; my brother settled in Westchester; my mother died and my father remarried—Nonna continues to rule the kitchen. More often than not, my father goes to the store to pick up ingredients for her after she dictates a list. She stands at the counter making dinner and listening to the radio, her hands trembling as she minces the onions and the garlic. When she has finished everything she needs to do, she sits at the table staring out the kitchen window at the driveway, her hands in her lap.

“So how do you make stracciatella?” I ask. I know how to make it; she has told me before. But I want her to tell me again. Nonna doesn’t use recipes; she cooks by feel, by touch and taste and sight. She takes out the spinach, the eggs, the pecorino romano cheese, and instructs me to add a handful, a sprinkle, una punta piccola, a little pinch, just enough.

In my other life, in New York City, I am Angela Russo, Italian- Irish-American, not too much of any one thing. I don’t conceal my Italian heritage, but I don’t make a lot of it, either. It is hidden in plain sight. But in Nonna’s kitchen I am an Italian girl, just as she used to be, learning to cook from her grandmother, who knows all the secrets.
 

Chapter 1

After college I wanted to apply to culinary school, but my father, who is an accountant, objected. “Cooking isn’t a real job,” he said.

“Too much hard work,” my stepmother chimed in. “Terrible hours. Take my advice, Angela: Get a normal job where you can leave at five. You’ll thank me when you have children.”

“Nonsense. Carpe diem!” my mother exclaimed long-distance, but I wasn’t inclined to take her advice. When she ran off with Murray Singer, she didn’t just leave my father, she abandoned my brother and me. I overheard the arguments before she left— she needed a clean break, she wasn’t emotionally equipped to deal with needy children, my father had always been the better parent anyway. She and Murray moved across the country to Portland, Oregon, and I only saw her three times before, in my midtwenties, she was killed in a car accident. My brother and I flew out to the funeral, but it was hard to feel much for a woman who had written us out of her life fifteen years earlier, when we needed her most.

So after college I moved to New York City with Lindsay, my best friend from high school. We rented an apartment near the river on the Upper East Side and did temp work at consulting firms while looking for normal jobs where we could leave at five.

I cast a wide net for positions available to liberal arts majors with no discernible skills except the ability to make lists, follow directions, and look fairly presentable. As in a game of musical chairs, the music stopped at event planning, and I sat down.

For the past five years I’ve been planning events at the Huntsworth Museum, a modish showcase for contemporary art in lower Manhattan. While I like some things about my job— the long-term planning combined with last-minute urgencies, the immediate gratification of momentary accomplishment, the blinking red light on my phone and the jaunty sherbet pop-up Post-its in a little box on my desk—I also have to admit that it’s no longer much of a challenge. For the first few years the learning curve was steep, but now my days are spent gliding across a smooth plateau of predictability. I can’t erase the nagging sense that there’s something else out there for me, if only I knew which direction to take.

It’s midmorning and I’m sitting at my desk sipping my second cup of coffee, researching novelty circus acts online. My big project at the moment is a black-tie gala four weeks from now, a benefit for a new wing of avant-garde art featuring the works of the French artist Zoë Devereux. Mary Quince, the curator and my boss, has said only that she wants “color, pizzazz, an element of the outrageous.” My idea is to stage an evening that animates figures from Zoë Devereux’s paintings—circus and carnival performers, acrobats and fire-eaters and jugglers.

Mimes, jesters, clowns, you name it, apparently they’re all for hire, à la carte or as a group. I print out a selection of options to discuss with Mary and start e-mailing several of the acts to see if they’re available to perform on September 19. As I’m tapping out an e-mail, my glance strays to the small ad at the bottom right of the screen:

Looking for Your Love Match:
DO SOUL MATES EXIST?

My finger hesitates for a moment over the mouse, and then I click on the tiny blue typeface.

I have found that the biggest moments in life, the ones that change everything, usually catch you by surprise. You might not even recognize them as they happen. Your finger is straying over the mouse and you click on the icon and suddenly you find yourself at the portal of a website—an embarrassingly named website, one that makes you wince: kissandtell.com.

Now why would you ever be drawn to such a place? More important, why would you linger?

A few days ago, during our usual Monday morning check-in, I told Lindsay about the abysmal blind date I’d been on the Saturday night before, and then waited to hear the details of hers.

“Well,” Lindsay said, “it wasn’t, actually.” “Wasn’t what?”

“Abysmal. Believe it or not.”

Riffling through the cluttered filing cabinet of my brain, I retrieved a scrap of memory: Lindsay joined an online dating service about a month ago. An amateur photographer took her picture. The resulting image, an off-the-shoulder embarrassment in soft focus, provoked a deluge of responses, mostly from shady guys on Long Island. “Don’t tell me—it’s Hot4U,” I joked.

Lindsay laughed uncomfortably. It was clear she regretted sharing this detail. “Actually, it is,” she said. “But the name is tongue-in-cheek. You know, an ironic commentary on the whole online-dating thing.”

“I see,” I said dubiously.

She sighed. “This guy is so great, Ange. So cute, so nice. So smart. I don’t know. This is going to sound crazy, but I think maybe I’ve found my soul mate.”

“Are you kidding? It’s—pretty soon to be talking soul mates, isn’t it, Linz?”

“I know!” she said. “Aren’t you happy for me?”

That night, after a dinner of four warm Krispy Kremes straight from the bag, I climbed into a sudsy bath and closed my eyes. How many people, I wondered, can actually claim to have found their soul mate, the one person in the world destiny has set aside for them? Not many, I’d bet. I’m skeptical that there is such a thing. I’m inclined to believe that the whole concept of a soul mate is like Sasquatch, the giant hairy ape-man of legend who turned out to be nothing more than a guy in a monkey suit running through a forest.

But now, sitting at my desk, I think—if Lindsay believes she’s actually found her soul mate, who am I to scoff and ridicule?

When you read the Sunday wedding section—the women’s sports page, as Lindsay calls it—to see how people met, you discover that it’s  often in the most accidental of ways, in the unlikeliest of places. At a funeral. In the park. In the back of an airplane. At the grocery store. Which makes those of us who haven’t found the right one edgy. Are you my life partner? Are you? If I don’t go to this party, or if I stay in my apartment on a sunny Saturday instead of heading over to Central Park with a picnic blanket and the Times, will I miss meeting the man of my dreams? You could drive yourself crazy with the what-ifs and why-nots.

After a while you start appraising fire hydrants and telephone poles—hmm, tall, sturdy, good posture, could be the one.

The other day on TV a so-called relationship expert said that it’s when you aren’t looking for love that you find it. But what does that mean, exactly? The truth is, even if you make a pact with yourself that you’re not looking and don’t care, a piece of you is always waiting for love to happen. Especially if you’re a woman who might someday want to give birth to a kid or two, and you’re thirty-three.

The problem with your best friend putting an idea in your head, even if it’s an idea you loathe (or perhaps especially if it’s an idea you loathe) is that then it’s in there, gestating, like the larvae of a nasty insect that burrows under your skin.

So . . . given the myriad ways in which people can and do meet, and the frank reality that I have managed to live for more than three decades without meeting my “soul mate,” perhaps I should give it a try.

And so it is that I find myself at kissandtell’s buoyantly graphic home page. “Never go on a bad date again!” promises the slogan at the top, and while that strikes me as unrealistic, I find myself caught up in the madcap hopefulness of it all. Pricking up my ears for the click-click of Mary Quince’s heels, I fill out the free entry form. I compile a shopping list of my requirements with the zeal of an early-bird shopper on the day of a big sale: male, between the ages of thirty-five—scratch that, twenty-nine—and forty; no kids; college educated. I specify my geographical locale as “New York region” and click “Done.”

A little human icon on the screen crosses its arms and cocks its head, as if considering my request. After a moment a database of postage-stamp-size photos and screen names pops up. I scroll down the seemingly endless list, most with suggestive or boastful screen names and subtle-as-a-mallet opening lines, only the first eight words of which are visible, followed by a trail of ellipses. The screen names generally contain a vanity-license-plate combo of numbers and letters, upper- and lowercase, puns and double entendres. Look4Love, Bod4U, SINgledad. (That one’s just creepy.) Though most photos are clearly intended to show off the subject’s best features, the men tend to look either menacing, intense, meek, too pumped, or downright dweeby.

I click on a photo, and the profile is revealed. Chuck, thirty-four, is an actuary who knows how to have a good time. He has been burned before but remains confident that the woman of his dreams is out there. Robert, thirty-one, wants a mutually satisfying relationship with a fellow bodybuilding enthusiast from the tristate area. Colin, a thirty-nine-year-old firefighter, is looking for a red-haired beauty who is ready to start a family and would be happy living on Staten Island. It doesn’t take much reading between the lines to spot the guys who live in the same house with or next door to their parents.

As I consider these options, my gaze strays from the computer screen to the bulletin board on my wall. Tacked to the gray synthetic fabric is a photo, torn from a magazine, of a weathered elfin cottage on the Maine coast. Several times a day my glance strays to this photo; the image has become totemic, as unreal a place as Middle Earth. Just looking at it soothes me, the way sound machines of waves or rain can calm your nerves. I have never been to Maine, but in my imagination life there isn’t so complicated. I picture a lump of dough rising under a tea towel on a kitchen counter; pansies spilling from a window box; seagulls the size of small dogs, circling in slow motion overhead.

Impulsively—perhaps recklessly—I widen my search, inching up the East Coast. Near Boston I find fewer Italians and bankers, more Irish Catholics and lawyers. Curiously, my qualms about serial rapists and ax murderers diminish the farther north I go, as if all the miscreants and deviants in the northeastern U.S. have confined themselves to the New York area, and the rest is safe.

Moving up the coastline, the pickings get slimmer. Maybe there’s a dating website specifically for Mainers, or perhaps Internet dating hasn’t really caught on there yet. There is a grand total of six profiles. Most of the head shots feature guys wearing baseball hats with obscure local slogans. Then, all at once—hey! I am gazing into the ice blue eyes of a thirty-five-year-old with the screen name “MaineCatch.” His opening teaser is “Sail away with me . . .” No baseball cap, a nice tan, a full head of slightly tousled blond hair, navy blue tennis shirt. I sit up straight in my desk chair and click on his picture.

“. . . in the night, and all day, too,” the teaser ends. As I read the profile I have to remind myself to breathe. It turns out that Rich, thirty-five, runs a sailing school in a coastal town on Mount Desert Island (Where? I must Google it immediately). Five eleven and 180 pounds, he has never been married, is a nonpracticing Protestant, loves Italian food and shellfish. Besides sailing, his interests include curling up with a good book, “my dog Sam (short for Samantha),” hiking, and . . . cooking.

My heart thumps.

I click a button that says “Register for free!” I can post my profile and picture, and receive and respond to inquires, but if I want to contact someone, I’ll have to pay the monthly charge of $29. There’s a feature called “tagging” that allows you to comment on someone’s profile without joining by using one of ten canned lines they provide (“You’re hot! Check me out—maybe we can start a fire together”).

I fill in the blanks:

Name: Angela (no last name).

Age? Am tempted to lie, then realize that it might lead to a potentially unpleasant spurning scenario. 33.

Religion: Nonpracticing Catholic. 

Profession: Event Planner. 

Hometown: New York City.

Vital statistics: Hmm. Tempted to ignore or minimize, but realize that this is risky. How is it that most people on this website describe themselves as “slim” when most Americans are overweight? I check “medium height, medium build.” Then, reconsidering, change it to “slim.”

Hobbies/activities: Watching old Lifetime movies in bed, drinking vodka tonics, going out with friends, reading the Styles section, trolling the Chelsea flea market, eating out. Going to the gym every four or five days and trotting on the treadmill for the duration of Access Hollywood.

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

Had I the kind of lifestyle wherein one might actually cultivate interesting hobbies, what would they be? Not that I have ever actually done it, but if I did exercise in a nongym way, I think I might enjoy hiking.

So—“Hiking.”

The one time I went sailing, with friends at a time share in the Hamptons, I threw up over the side of the boat, but I’m sure I could grow to love it. I like everything except the water part. The beautiful wooden vessels, the salt-crisp nautical wear, picnics on deck with a glass of wine. The shiny, curving wood in the cabin and the rounded windows belowdecks.

“Sailing.”

When I was little I wanted a dog. I begged for years, and finally got a mutt named Rusty. He didn’t take well to house-training and tended to snap, and when he was almost a year old he met an unfortunate end after ingesting rat poison left in the garage by my dad. But I have no doubt that I could grow to love someone else’s adored dog, particularly a Lab named Sam.

“Dogs.”

And then there’s cooking. For this one I don’t have to lie or fudge. I write, “Enjoys cooking Italian food and shellfish with friends, al fresco dining under a clear, star-filled sky.” The lyrics of that oldies song about piña coladas and getting caught in the rain waft through my head.

So call it coincidence, call it kismet, call it what you will, but my interests dovetail quite nicely with those of MaineCatch.

Several months ago the publications director of the museum took a picture of me for the annual report. It’s like a yearbook photo—stiff smile, white blouse—but it’s all I’ve got. I fish it out of a drawer and hurry down the hall to the industrial-strength printer/scanner, scanning it through before I have time to second-guess myself. On the computer screen, I am cheered to see, I look a little better than in real life.

I finish filling out my profile and hesitate over the screen name. It should convey cool nonchalance as opposed to sluttish desperation. What would appeal to Mr. Catch? I try out a few. “Ready2Sail”? Too obvious. “NewYorkCatch”? Erk. I flash through  a few possibilities—SpicyGirl, LemonLover (like my grandfather, I do love lemons, but—no)—before trying out NewYorkGirl.

NewYork . . . Girl. I think about it for a moment. It’s a stretch, but anyone can see my age on the form. It’s breezy. I’m going with it.

Since I am disinclined to pay for this, I scroll through the short list of generic options and fix on the one that seems most neutral: “I’m intrigued! Check me out.”

I send my profile and the canned tagline to MaineCatch and get a confirmation notice from the website. I feel a flash of regret, and then a tingle of hope. It’s the same feeling I had when I was ten and stuffed a message in a bottle and tossed it off a pier into the ocean. Now that I remember it, the bottle kept washing up onshore with the tide and I finally gave up—but still. My message is out there, and now all I can do is wait and see.