Tiramisu

Wednesday morning arrived with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for Christmas, winning the lottery, or discovering that somebody else had volunteered to clean the bathroom.

Alfie Brand was already dressed for football club by 8:15 a.m. This was actually later than normal for him, hence Mrs Brand took it as a major win. His kit was packed, his water bottle filled, his boots inspected for mud, and his shin pads located without anybody having to shout.

This was because Alfie was eight and had apparently been born with the organisational instincts of a retired headteacher.

Barry, meanwhile, was sitting at the breakfast table wearing one sock, no trousers and a T-shirt that had been inside out since Tuesday afternoon.

“I’m not ready,” he announced.

“You’re not even dressed,” said Mrs Brand.

“That’s why I’m not ready.”

Mr Brand lowered his newspaper. “An astonishing piece of investigative journalism from our youngest son.”

Barry ignored him. He was concentrating on his cereal, which he had arranged into the shape of a dinosaur. Unfortunately, the dinosaur had drowned in milk and now resembled a small, unfortunate island.

Today was his second Cookery Day at school with Mrs Rossi, this week. Yesterday, Barry had made homemade pizza and gelato, and had returned home looking as though he had discovered an entirely new branch of human civilisation.

He had also enjoyed himself far more than he had expected to without Marmaduke beside him.

Marmaduke was in Barbados with his mum, Marjory, visiting family and hearing stories about his late dad, Mark. The Brand family would join them the following week, and Marmaduke had promised to save some adventures for Barry.

Barry still missed him terribly, of course. But yesterday had shown him something important: it was possible to miss your best friend and still have a good day.

He had not yet told anybody this in those exact words, because he was four and had other priorities.

Like whether a dinosaur could eat cereal.

“Today,” Barry announced, “I’m going to make pasta.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Brand. “That is generally what happens at a pasta-making class.”

“And dessert.”

“Also correct.”

“And I get to eat it.”

“Now you’re understanding the educational system.”

Alfie came downstairs, collected his bag and looked at his younger brother.

“Try not to get flour in your hair this time.”

“That was yesterday.”

“Exactly. It would be embarrassing to repeat yourself.”

Barry narrowed his eyes. “You’re going to football.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll probably kick a ball.”

“That is, broadly speaking, the point.”

“And I’m going to cook.”

“Yes, Barry.”

“So we’re both doing important things.”

Alfie considered this. “I suppose so.”

“Mine has dessert.”

Alfie paused.

“Enjoy football,” Barry said magnanimously.

“Enjoy your pasta.”

There was a moment of mutual respect.

Then Barry tipped his cereal bowl slightly to see whether the dinosaur island would float away, and the moment ended.

At school, Alfie trotted off happily towards football club, looking like a small professional athlete on his way to an important fixture. He waved to Barry without breaking stride.

Barry waved back.

He was feeling much more positive about cookery than he had the day before. He even walked into Mrs Rossi’s classroom without the dragging feet and tragic expression of someone being sent to a Victorian workhouse.

Mrs Rossi was waiting at the door in her apron.

“Buongiorno, Barry!”

Barry stopped.

“Is that Italian?”

“Very good.”

“Does it mean you’re going to give me cake?”

Mrs Rossi laughed. “It means good morning.”

“Oh.” Barry thought about this. “Cake would be a better greeting.”

“Perhaps you should write to the Italian government.”

The room was already busy. There were several children from an older class, all of whom seemed to know one another extremely well. They were chatting about something that had happened in their classroom, laughing about a teacher Barry had never met and discussing an event that apparently required an enormous amount of background information.

Barry stood beside Mrs Rossi and watched them.

They were all taller than him.

They all knew each other.

And one boy seemed to have brought a pencil case that was larger than Barry’s school bag.

For a brief moment, Barry wondered whether yesterday’s success had been a fluke. Perhaps today would involve being the smallest person in a room full of people who knew everything already.

Mrs Rossi, who had spent enough time around children to recognise a worried face even when it was attached to a child pretending to inspect a cupboard, crouched beside him.

“Today you are my special assistant,” she said quietly. “You know what we did yesterday. You know how to follow a recipe. And you have excellent dinosaur ideas.”

Barry brightened.

“Can I make a dinosaur pasta?”

“We are making tortellini.”

“Can tortellini be a dinosaur?”

“Anything is possible in this kitchen. Within reason.”

“What’s the reason?”

“That we have to eat lunch before four o’clock.”

Barry nodded solemnly. A sensible rule.

Mrs Rossi introduced him to the other children and explained that they were going to make handmade tortellini with tomato and basil sauce, followed by tiramisu to take home.

“Tiramisu!” one girl said. “I love tiramisu.”

“What’s it made of?” Barry asked.

“Coffee, chocolate, mascarpone cheese, biscuits, and a little Marsala wine,” Mrs Rossi explained. “But today we are using a zero-per-cent Marsala alternative, so there is no alcohol.”

“Is the Marsala a horse?”

“No, Barry.”

“Then why is it called Marsala?”

“Because it comes from a place in Italy.”

Barry accepted this, although he remained suspicious of any food with a name that sounded like a horse.

Mrs Rossi handed him a small card.

“Today we are learning some Italian words too.”

Barry studied it.

“Pasta means pasta,” she explained.

“That’s easy.”

“Pomodoro means tomato.”

“Pomo-doro.”

“Excellent. Basilico means basil.”

“Basilico.”

“Formaggio means cheese.”

Barry looked up. “That sounds like a sneeze.”

“It does a little,” Mrs Rossi admitted.

“And buonissimo means delicious.”

Barry grinned. “That’s the most important one.”

“Already, you understand Italian culture.”

The first job was making the pasta dough.

Mrs Rossi demonstrated how to mix the flour and eggs, bringing everything together until it formed a soft, smooth dough.

Barry watched intently.

“So you put eggs in flour?”

“Yes.”

“And then it becomes pasta?”

“Eventually.”

“What happens if you put a dinosaur in?”

“You would have a very expensive dinosaur and no lunch.”

Barry decided against it.

The older children worked in pairs, chatting comfortably as they kneaded their dough. Mrs Rossi made sure Barry had a space of his own beside her, with all his ingredients measured out and his equipment within easy reach.

She didn’t hover over him. Instead, she explained each step clearly, gave him time to try things himself, and offered help when his enthusiasm threatened to overtake his technique.

At one point, Barry pushed down on his dough so hard that it shot sideways across the worktop.

“Your pasta is trying to escape,” observed the pencil-case boy.

“It’s practising,” Barry replied.

“Practising what?”

“Running away from people who ask too many questions.”

Mrs Rossi turned her back very quickly.

It was possible she was checking the ingredients.

It was also possible she was laughing.

Once the dough had rested, Mrs Rossi showed Barry how to roll it out thinly. He took his task seriously, using the rolling pin with the concentration of a man attempting to flatten a very stubborn road.

Then came the filling.

They mixed ricotta cheese with Parmesan and a little seasoning. Mrs Rossi showed him how to place small portions onto the pasta, fold it over, seal the edges carefully and shape each piece into a little ring.

“Tortellini,” she said. “Little pasta parcels.”

Barry held up his first one.

“It looks like a tiny hat.”

“It does.”

“Can I wear it?”

“Only if you want to spend the rest of the day explaining to your mother why your lunch is on your head.”

He placed it carefully on the tray.

The first tortellini was a little lopsided. The second looked as though it had heard bad news. The third was genuinely impressive.

By the sixth, Barry had developed a system.

“Small spoonful,” he muttered. “Fold. Press. Turn. Hat.”

“Very good,” said Mrs Rossi.

“I’m making hats for the pasta people.”

“Of course you are.”

Soon, Barry was chatting to the other children. One girl asked whether he was in Reception.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m four.”

“I’m seven.”

“That’s quite old.”

She looked offended. “It’s not that old.”

“It’s nearly eight.”

“That’s not how age works!”

Barry shrugged. “It’s how it works when you’re four.”

Mrs Rossi intervened before a full-scale international incident could break out over the mathematics of birthdays.

By the time the pasta trays were ready, Barry was smiling broadly. He had made a whole row of tortellini, and although they were not all identical, they were unmistakably his.

He was particularly pleased with one that looked like a small, slightly angry ring.

“That’s the boss,” he explained.

“Every kitchen needs one,” said Mrs Rossi.

Next came the tomato and basil sauce.

The cherry tomatoes had already been roasted in the oven with olive oil, seasoning and garlic until they were soft, sweet and beginning to caramelise.

Mrs Rossi placed them in the liquidiser, added the roasted garlic and fresh basil, and checked the lid.

Barry stared at the machine.

“Can I press the button?”

“You may.”

“THE BUTTON?”

“Yes, Barry. The very same.”

He placed his finger over the switch with the solemnity of a space scientist about to launch a rocket.

“Ready?” asked Mrs Rossi.

Barry nodded.

“Tre, due, uno!”

“What’s that?”

“Three, two, one!”

Barry pressed the button.

The liquidiser roared into life.

Barry’s face lit up.

“IT’S TURNING THE TOMATOES INTO SOUP!”

“Sauce,” Mrs Rossi corrected, raising her voice over the machine.

“SAUCE SOUP!”

The roasted tomatoes, garlic and basil whirred together into a rich, fragrant sauce. When Mrs Rossi switched the liquidiser off, Barry leaned forward to inspect the result.

It was smooth, bright red and smelled wonderful.

He looked at the machine with enormous respect.

“I made that.”

“You certainly helped.”

“I pressed the button.”

“You did.”

“Could I have a job pressing buttons?”

Mrs Rossi considered this. “I imagine there are several careers that would suit you.”

“Like a rocket man?”

“Possibly.”

“Or the person who opens the automatic doors at the supermarket?”

“An excellent career option.”

Barry nodded. He was already thinking about his future.

The tortellini were cooked carefully in boiling water, and Mrs Rossi tossed them in the warm tomato and basil sauce. She added a little grated Parmesan and a few fresh basil leaves.

The children sat down to eat.

Barry took a bite.

He stopped chewing.

He looked at Mrs Rossi.

He looked at his plate.

He took another bite, just to make sure.

“Buonissimo,” he announced.

Mrs Rossi beamed.

The older children agreed that the pasta was delicious. Even the pencil-case boy admitted that Barry’s tortellini were good, although he did add that one looked like a hat.

Barry pointed his fork at him.

“It’s a very fashionable hat.”

And that, apparently, was the end of the matter.

After lunch came tiramisu.

Mrs Rossi explained that the name meant something like “pick me up”, which was a useful name for a dessert containing coffee.

Barry considered this carefully.

“So if I fall over, I should eat tiramisu?”

“No.”

“What if I’m tired?”

“Still no.”

“What if Alfie is being annoying?”

“Then you should speak to your parents.”

Barry sighed. “Italian food has a disappointing number of rules.”

They made layers using sponge biscuits dipped briefly into (decaffeinated) coffee, followed by a creamy mascarpone mixture. Mrs Rossi supervised the coffee carefully and helped Barry make sure the biscuits were dipped rather than soaked into something resembling a soggy building site.

They added the zero-per-cent Marsala alternative, then another layer of creamy mascarpone and a final dusting of chocolate.

Barry was delighted by the chocolate.

“Can I have extra?”

“You can have the amount the recipe requires.”

“What if the recipe is wrong?”

“Then we must contact the recipe’s parents.”

Barry looked impressed.

Mrs Rossi showed him how to smooth the top and wipe the sides of his dish clean. She helped him secure the lid, then wrote his name on it.

“This is yours to take home for your family to enjoy tonight,” she told him.

Barry stood back to admire it.

It looked beautiful: neat layers, creamy filling, a delicate dusting of chocolate on top. It was a grown-up dessert, the sort of thing people served at dinner parties while pretending not to be furious about the cost of the ingredients.

Barry had made it.

Well, with a little help from Mrs Rossi, some careful instructions, and a kitchen full of equipment that could probably have frightened a medieval blacksmith.

Still.

He had made it.

He carried it with both hands when the class finished, taking slow, deliberate steps.

“Careful,” Mrs Rossi reminded him.

“I am careful.”

“You are carrying dessert like it contains the Crown Jewels.”

“It might be more important.”

Mrs Rossi smiled. “You have had a very good day, Barry.”

“I have.”

“And you should be proud of yourself.”

“I am.”

He paused.

“I still miss Marmaduke.”

“I know,” she said gently. “And you can tell him all about today when you speak to him. You can miss him and still enjoy what you’re doing here.”

Barry thought about that as he looked down at the tiramisu.

“I’m going to tell him about the liquidiser.”

“I thought you might.”

“And the pasta hats.”

“Definitely.”

“And that the Italian word for delicious is buonissimo.”

“Excellent.”

Barry considered one more thing.

“Do you think Marmaduke will be jealous?”

“Perhaps he will wish he had been here.”

Barry nodded. “I’ll tell him he can make pasta hats with me when he gets back.”

“That’s a lovely idea.”

Then Barry added, “But I’m pressing the liquidiser button.”

Mrs Rossi laughed. “I suspect you’ll have to negotiate that.”

“I’m very good at negotiating.”

She gave him a look that suggested she had met lawyers before.

At four o’clock, Mr Brand arrived to collect him.

Alfie was already there after football, flushed and happy, explaining a particularly good pass to his father in painstaking detail.

Barry emerged from Mrs Rossi’s classroom carrying his tiramisu like a waiter delivering a very expensive wedding cake.

“LOOK!”

Mr Brand straightened immediately.

“Good grief. Have you robbed a restaurant?”

“I made it.”

“You made that?”

“With Mrs Rossi. It’s tiramisu. It has coffee, chocolate, mascarpone and wine.”

Alfie peered at the dish.

“Marsala?”

“A place in Italy,” Barry said confidently.

“It’s also a fortified wine,” Mr Brand added, “but this one has no alcohol.”

Barry looked at his father.

“Mrs Rossi said that.”

“Then Mrs Rossi is a woman of considerable wisdom.”

Barry’s face shone with pride.

“I made tortellini too. And tomato sauce. I pressed the button on the liquidiser.”

“Did you?” said Alfie.

“It was very loud.”

“Did you put the lid on?”

“Mrs Rossi did.”

“Good.”

Barry looked mildly offended. “I’m not a baby, Alfie.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You looked like you were thinking it.”

“I was thinking about whether there’s any tiramisu left.”

Barry clutched the dish closer to his chest.

“It’s for tonight.”

“I’m aware.”

“Not for now.”

“Also aware.”

“And you can’t have it all.”

Alfie sighed. “I never said I wanted all of it.”

“You were thinking it.”

Mr Brand looked from one son to the other.

He had spent years studying legal disputes, contractual interpretation and the fine art of avoiding unnecessary liability. Yet he could see that the family was about to enter a complex argument concerning dessert allocation, and no amount of legal training was going to save him.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s get home before somebody files an injunction.”

Barry climbed into the car, carefully settling the tiramisu beside him.

He was tired, happy and already planning what he would tell Marmaduke on their next video call.

He would explain the tortellini. The tomato sauce. The button. The Italian words. The tiramisu.

He would tell him about the older children, who had turned out to be friendly once Barry had explained that he was four and therefore knew a great deal about dinosaurs.

And when Marmaduke came home, they would cook together.

Perhaps they would make pasta hats.

Perhaps they would invent a new dessert.

Perhaps Barry would even allow Marmaduke to press the liquidiser button.

He hadn’t decided yet.

Some friendships were built on trust, kindness and years of shared adventures.

Others required very careful negotiations over kitchen appliances.

At home, Mrs Brand opened the front door and greeted them.

Barry stepped inside with his precious dish.

“Everyone!” he announced. “I have made dessert!”

Snowball appeared from the sitting room, took one look at the commotion and sat down with the air of a cat who had seen empires rise and fall and had no intention of being impressed by mascarpone.

Barry set the tiramisu safely in the fridge.

“Tonight,” he told the family, “we are having Italian pudding.”

“Wonderful,” said Mrs Brand.

“And I made it.”

“We know, darling.”

“And tomorrow I might make something else.”

Mr Brand loosened his tie.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Barry grinned.

Wednesday had been a success. He had made new friends, learned new words, cooked a proper meal and created a dessert that would be enjoyed by his family.

He still missed Marmaduke. That hadn’t magically disappeared.

But missing his best friend didn’t mean he had to sit at home waiting for him to return. There were things to discover, people to meet and buttons to press in the meantime.

Preferably with a responsible adult nearby.

And, as Barry would have explained to anyone willing to listen, there was absolutely no reason why being four should prevent a person from becoming a world-famous chef.

Especially if the chef had access to a liquidiser.

And chocolate.

Mostly chocolate.