Cookery club part 2

Friday morning arrived with sunshine pouring through the curtains and birds singing outside the Brand house.

Barry woke up before his alarm.

Not because he was excited.

Because he had dreamed about pizza.

This, in Barry’s opinion, was a perfectly reasonable reason to wake up.

He jumped out of bed, bounced across to Marmaduke’s bed and whispered loudly, “Marm!”

No answer.

“MARM!”

Marmaduke opened one eye.

“Is the pizza ready?”

Barry paused.

“I don’t know.”

“Then why are you waking me up?”

“…Because I was thinking about pizza.”

Marmaduke nodded thoughtfully.

“Fair enough.”

Downstairs, Mum was making breakfast while replying to emails.

Dad had come home from Leicester very late the previous evening after helping Grandma settle back into her little house. She was still tired, but she was much better and had been given strict instructions by everyone—including Marjory—to rest.

Dad looked as though he could do with resting too.

He wandered into the kitchen wearing slippers that didn’t match.

Barry frowned.

“Dad.”

“Yes?”

“Your feet have had an argument.”

Dad looked down.

“Oh.”

One slipper was blue.

The other was green.

“I wondered why they felt… different.”

Mum smiled.

“I’d say you’re tired.”

“I’d say I’m fashion-forward.”

Barry whispered to Marmaduke,

“I think tired people become colourful.”

Marjory arrived to take the boys to school. She had just worked a night shift and would go to bed once the kids were occupied for the day. 

“Morning!”

Barry proudly announced, “We’re making pizza today.”

“I’ve heard.”

“And gelato.”

“I’ve heard that too.”

“I’m basically Italian now.”

Marjory smiled.

“I think Mrs Rossi might want a second opinion.”

Mrs Rossi was waiting in the cookery room with music playing softly.

Italian music floated through the room while huge bowls of flour covered the worktops.

“Ciao, bambini!”

“CIAO!” shouted Barry and Marmaduke.

Mrs Rossi laughed.

“I like the enthusiasm.”

Alfie quietly put on his apron.

Barry attempted to tie his own.

He accidentally tied himself to a chair.

Mrs Rossi untangled him.

“Perhaps today we only cook the food.”

Today’s menu was written on the board.

Homemade Pizza

Fresh Fruit Gelato

Barry read it very slowly.

Then looked puzzled.

“Where’s the pudding?”

Mrs Rossi smiled.

“The gelato.”

“Oh.”

“Ice cream.”

Barry’s eyes became enormous.

“Why didn’t you say that first?”

Mrs Rossi gathered everyone around.

“Remember our rules.”

“The grown-ups use the hot ovens,” 

Alfie said.

“The grown-ups use the sharp knives,” added another child.

Barry nodded.

“And I don’t press mysterious buttons.”

Mrs Rossi looked pleasantly surprised.

“Excellent memory.”

“I still want to.”

“I know.”

The first task was making pizza dough.

Mrs Rossi tipped warm water into each of the bowls of flour. 

Then yeast.

Barry sniffed it.

“It smells funny.”

“That’s because it’s alive.”

Barry stared.

“We’re cooking living bread?”

Mrs Rossi laughed.

“The yeast helps the dough grow.”

Barry looked at Marmaduke.

“It’s bread magic.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“I knew it.”

Everyone mixed carefully.

Barry stirred enthusiastically.

The dough became sticky.

Very sticky.

Exceptionally sticky.

Barry lifted his spoon.

The dough came with it.

Then wrapped itself around his fingers.

Then his other hand.

“Mrs Rossi…”

“Yes?”

“I think it’s eating me.”

She smiled.

“No, Barry.”

“It definitely feels personal.”

Marmaduke copied Barry.

Within seconds both boys had dough up to their wrists.

Mrs Rossi folded her arms.

“Remarkable.”

“What?”

“You’ve managed to wear more dough than is actually in the bowl.”

Now came kneading.

Mrs Rossi demonstrated.

“Push.”

“Fold.”

“Turn.”

“Again.”

Alfie copied perfectly.

His dough became smooth and stretchy.

Barry copied…

…for exactly three pushes.

Then he discovered the dough bounced.

Boing.

Boing.

Boing.

“Marm! Look!”

Soon two lumps of dough were bouncing gently around the table like sleepy trampolines.

Mrs Rossi sighed dramatically.

“My Nonna would faint.”

The dough needed to rise.

Mrs Rossi covered each bowl with a damp cloth.

“It needs peace and quiet.”

Barry whispered,

“So we shouldn’t shout?”

“No.”

“Can it hear us?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Because peaceful dough makes better pizza.”

Barry accepted this immediately.

For the next ten minutes he tiptoed around the classroom whispering,

“Don’t wake the bread.”

While the dough rested, everyone prepared toppings.

Adults chopped peppers, mushrooms and onions.

The children grated cheese, tore basil and arranged sweetcorn into little bowls.

Barry discovered olives.

He looked at one carefully.

“It looks like a tiny tyre.”

Mrs Rossi nodded.

“It does.”

He popped one into his mouth.

His face immediately folded itself into seventeen different expressions.

“Oh.”

“You don’t like olives?”

“They’re… confusing.”

Marmaduke tried one.

He made exactly the same face.

Mrs Rossi couldn’t stop laughing.

Soon the dough had doubled in size.

Barry gasped.

“It HAD babies!”

“The dough has risen.”

“It’s definitely had babies.”

Each child stretched out their own pizza base.

Barry accidentally made England.

Marmaduke made something that looked suspiciously like Australia.

Alfie made a proper circle.

Barry looked at his brother.

“Show off.”

“I just followed the instructions.”

“Exactly.”

Mrs Rossi spooned tomato sauce onto each pizza.

“Not too much.”

Barry nodded.

Then added one extra spoon.

Then another.

His pizza looked more like tomato soup.

Mrs Rossi gently rescued it.

“I admire your optimism.”

Then came the toppings.

Barry arranged pepperoni into a smiley face.

Sweetcorn became hair.

Olives became ears.

A mushroom became a nose.

Mrs Rossi looked impressed.

“It’s… artistic.”

“It’s Pizza Barry.”

“Of course it is.”

Marmaduke copied him.

His pizza looked permanently surprised.

The adults carefully placed every pizza into the hot ovens.

The room filled with the most wonderful smell.

Cheese bubbling.

Fresh bread.

Tomatoes.

Garlic.

Barry closed his eyes.

“I wish houses always smelled like this.”

Mrs Rossi smiled.

“Mine does.”

“I want to live here.”

While lunch cooked, Mrs Rossi gathered everyone around another table.

“Now…”

She lifted a bowl of frozen fruit.

“…gelato.”

Barry whispered,

“Ice cream.”

Mrs Rossi winked.

“I know.”

The children mashed strawberries and bananas with yoghurt while the adults operated the food processor.

Barry carefully folded the mixture together.

“I’m getting good at this.”

“You are.”

“I’ve only exploded one ingredient today.”

“So far,” Alfie muttered.

Lunch was magnificent.

Every child proudly ate their own homemade pizza.

Barry declared his smiley face tasted happy.

Marmaduke agreed.

Alfie quietly admitted it was one of the nicest pizzas he’d ever eaten.

Mrs Rossi looked delighted.

“There is always room at an Italian table.”

Barry looked around.

“There are only twenty-four chairs.”

Mrs Rossi laughed so loudly she nearly dropped her fork.

Then came the gelato.

Smooth.

Cold.

Fresh.

Delicious.

Barry took one spoonful.

Then another.

Then another.

Brain freeze struck without warning.

Barry clutched his forehead.

“My brain’s frozen!”

Mrs Rossi looked concerned.

Alfie didn’t.

“You ate too quickly.”

“I’ve forgotten everything!”

“No, you haven’t.”

Barry looked worried.

“What’s my name?”

“Barry.”

“Oh.”

“I’m cured.”

Marmaduke slowed down immediately.

“I don’t want to forget my name.”

At home time the children packed their recipe cards into little folders. 

Mrs Rossi handed each of them a wooden spoon with a ribbon tied around it.

“Every good chef needs a spoon.”

Barry accepted his as though receiving a knighthood.

“I shall protect this forever.”

Two minutes later he accidentally sat on it.

Fortunately, the spoon survived.

Marjory collected the boys.

“How was today?”

Barry took a very deep breath.

“We made alive bread…”

“It wasn’t alive.”

“…that had babies…”

“It rose.”

“…then I made Pizza Barry…”

“You certainly did.”

“…then my brain froze…”

“You ate too quickly.”

“…and now I’m an Italian chef.”

Marjory looked at Mrs Rossi.

Mrs Rossi simply smiled.

“I think that’s an accurate summary.”

That evening, Mum and Dad decided the boys should cook dinner.

Well…

Help cook dinner.

Mrs Rossi had sent everyone home with extra pizza dough.

Barry proudly wore his little apron.

Alfie carefully read the recipe card.

Marmaduke sprinkled cheese.

Dad supervised.

Mum watched from a safe distance with a cup of tea.

Somehow…

Nobody covered the kitchen in flour.

Nobody bounced the dough.

Nobody sat on a wooden spoon.

It was astonishing.

When the pizzas came out of the oven, Barry looked around proudly.

“We did it!”

“We all did,” Dad smiled.

Barry carried a slice over to Dad.

“For driving to Grandma.”

Another to Mum.

“For looking after everyone.”

Another to Alfie.

“For being sensible.”

Alfie smiled.

“Thank you.”

Barry handed the final slice to Marmaduke.

“For copying me.”

Marmaduke grinned.

“My favourite hobby.”

Everyone laughed.

The week had begun with worry, hospital phone calls and unanswered questions.

It ended with full tummies, flour in unexpected places, Grandma safely home, and two four-year-olds who were now completely convinced they could open their own Italian restaurant.

Mrs Rossi later admitted she hoped they waited at least another ten years.

Mostly because she quite liked having an intact kitchen.

And somewhere in Leicestershire, Grandma Brand smiled, reached for another slice of pizza (from the supermarket) and thought to herself that families, much like good pizza, are always best when everyone brings something different to the table.

Even if one of those ingredients happens to be Barry chaos.