A Bird in the Oven - Kata Cuic Page 0,43

I err on the side of displeasure. “You can fly to DC to visit Brent anytime you want.”

“True, but I would like to be present when you tell your family our big announcement.”

She glares at me. Strangely, this brings me great joy.

“Oh.” Mom chuckles. “This sounds like a lovers’ spat in the making. Why don’t we go over the grocery list and recipes and keep our mother-to-be calm and in good spirits, yes?”

Of course, it is always my goal to keep Liv calm and in good spirits. However, it is also my goal to make her fall in love with me. I did not realize until now how dirty I am willing to play to achieve this goal.

I pull out a chair at the kitchen table. “Please sit, mother of my unborn child.”

She continues to glare at me even though she follows directions like a good girl. She will receive a reward later for her compliant behavior. Perhaps also a punishment for her insouciance. I have yet to determine if she responds well to that sort of thing. I will have to be very controlled. The idea of causing her even an ounce more of pain sickens me.

To be clear, my nausea does not prohibit my very vivid visions of reenacting very explicit scenes I have studied.

She glances up at me. Her expression is neutral. “Ollie, you should sit, too. These are your family recipes.”

Any invitation to be close to her, I willingly accept. I pull out the chair next to hers. I hold her hand in mine. It has nothing to do with the fact my mother is watching us very closely.

“All right.” Mom spreads out a fan of papers with her very neat handwriting. “This is everything we serve at Cucinelli Thanksgiving dinners. I’ve already made up a grocery list of all the items you’ll need. You can keep all these for your new home.”

“We may not take them now to prepare for the dinner in forty-four days? You are making us wait until we buy a new house?”

Liv squeezes my hand. “I think she means we can keep them for the new home—the new family—we’re building together. It has nothing to do with the living environment.”

Mom’s smile is very wide. “That is correct. You may take them home with you this evening. I just wanted to go through a full practice run with you before the big day.”

Oh. That is very kind and wise of her. I have never attempted to cook a large meal before. I highly doubt Liv has either. I have no knowledge of her family traditions because they do not seem to have any. Every year that I was invited to a holiday meal with her family, they offered different foods. Most of which I did not like. In the interests of manners, I pretended. I am a very good actor since Liv has taught me how to be. Only she does not know that since I have studied her in secret for years.

“Now, let’s go over everything before we look at the grocery list,” Mom says.

I tune out most of the conversation. I am very familiar with my family’s Thanksgiving meals, and I know what to expect—homemade bread, a large salad, antipasto platters, ziti with meatballs, mushroom risotto, a roast turkey with gravy, and a beautiful and delicious dessert selection.

Liv’s unhappy voice causes me to pay attention to the discussion again. “You don’t serve mashed potatoes? A bread-based stuffing? No cranberry sauce?”

Mom attempts to mask a disgusted expression, much like I tried to when Live and I were on our first date at a seafood restaurant. “No, dear. Those are American traditions. We're Italian."

“I didn’t realize you were born in Italy,” Liv mutters.

“Oh, I wasn’t,” Mom admits. “My mother and father were from the Lombardy region, and we carry on their traditions. God rest their souls.”

“What about Mr. Cucinelli? Was he born in Italy?” Liv asks. Her tone sounds genuinely curious. Liv is always curious and full of questions. It is one of the characteristics that makes her such a good librarian. It is one of the characteristics that changed my feelings about her from friendship to love. I love Liv’s questions.

“No, he was also born in the United States. His parents are from Sicily. God rest their souls.”

“Sicily and Lombardy have vastly different cultures even though they’re both Italian,” Liv says. “How have you merged them?”

“That’s easy!” Mom laughs. It is a big sound that echoes off the kitchen cabinets and