Zimmer: Risotto Milanese & a Journey of Remembering

17

Today was a day for a trip down memory lane, and Amelia knew she would have to have all her strength about her, as she tucked into leftovers for breakfast with a strong espresso, her head still a little foggy from the overindulgence the night before. Her dream had left her feeling unsettled and reading her mother’s letter all those times over, she had decided that indeed, she would not go gently and let go of the dreams she had once so fervently held as a child. She would show them all in the end.

Just you wait, she mused to herself. It required another trip to the old garage of her mother’s things. Again this time, she was in search of something specific, namely the box of fine brushes so expertly cared for by her mother. Georgina Young had been nothing if not particular with her brushes all those years ago. Feeling too hung-over still for finery, Amelia simply slipped on a pair of jeans with the Pixies fan shirt she’d slept in and donned her old but trusty flip flops.

Downing the last swig of her espresso she called out her usual goodbye to Ailuros and grabbed her bag and keys and left. Finding the box would be a simple matter as Amelia had made sure to mark and order the boxes methodically. One day, she had promised herself, she would sort through them all and restore some of her mother’s old things to her own home and donate the rest to charity, but she was not ready yet, not today of all days, a headache beginning to pierce her skull.

She opened up the garage door and soon found the box she was looking for, but while there, another dusty box had caught her attention marked ‘Amelia’s Books’. Georgina Young had packed up all of Amelia’s childhood books when she had grown into a teenager but had sworn to Amelia she might need them one day and so rather than get rid of them, her mother had set them aside to save for her daughter should she ever wish to return to their pages.

Opening it up, amidst the Roald Dahl and Enid Blyton and Judy Blume and Adrian Mole Diaries, Amelia was greeted by a book that had been a great treasure of hers growing up, namely, Faeries by Alan Lee and Brian Froud. How many times she had turned their pages. She remembered even all the faeries that she’d painted from its fine illustrative work, believing oh so wholeheartedly at the time in the faery kingdom. Grabbing the box of brushes she’d come for, Amelia also placed the book in her carry bag.

Next she was off to the art shop she had googled earlier that morning. Le Chat Noir. For her plan to work she would need a great deal more supplies and wont as her mother was to work in oils, it was always watercolours that had been Amelia’s favourite medium of choice growing up. Some quality watercolours and suitable paper would do nicely for the passion project she was plotting.

Ringing the bell to the art shop, true to its name, a black cat dozed on the paving beneath the ivy creeper, completely unfettered and all but oblivious entirely to Amelia’s presence. The gate buzzed for Amelia to enter.

“How can I help, dear?” A voice called out. Amelia turned and was greeted by a woman even shorter in stature than herself, in a white vest and jean shorts and sneakers, her messy grey mop of hair pulled into a twist with a pencil.

“Just a set of watercolours and some paper, if you could steer me in the right direction?”

“Of course, of course...” She showed Amelia through to the watercolours and then pointed her in the general direction of papers and sketchpads. Though the art shop was small, its wares were comprehensive. Soon Amelia had all she needed and returned to the counter to pay for her basket of supplies.

“Fine choice indeed. Are you an artist?”

“No, but my mother was, and she said you can only be as good as your medium allows... Quality was everything to her.”

“Well, I wish you luck then with your new goodies! Have fun!” And with that, Amelia was out the gate, laden carry bag in hand and into her grandfather’s old fiat to make the trip back home.

Once home, Amelia wet a page and stretched it out onto a board, sticky taping it neatly around the edges. She paged through Faeries until she found what she was looking for. It had always been her favourite. A faery, nude, and curled up against a deep emerald green background surrounded by purple blossoms, with hair the vibrant colour of gleaming copper.

She set up her patio table with a glass of water for dipping the brushes and an ice-cream lid for a palate and her new set of watercolours and a pencil. Carefully, she sketched the shape of the faery and the blossoms. And then, slowly but surely she began to colour the faery and fill in the background.

With Billie Holiday on the stereo in the background, Amelia was growing ever more lost in the art of painting, rekindling a love she had forgotten since her mother’s passing when such things had suddenly seemed so very frivolous. And yet, now, it seemed hardly frivolous at all but so very elemental to her very soul, like saying hello to an old friend and picking up a familiarity as if no time at all had passed.

Her Billie Holiday CD having long gone silent in the background, Amelia decided to turn on the radio. She often found it soothing to listen to the banter on the radio quietly in the distance, and in this, today was not unlike any other until something piqued her curiosity. The radio was announcing a competition. For a children’s book. Half of the proceeds would go to a children’s charity of the winner’s choosing and the book would be published. Perhaps, perhaps, she began to muse. Why not?

Maybe this would keep her mother off her back with those fitful dreams. Did she really want to commit the rest of her eternity to placing commas and repairing disastrous syntax? She had certainly never envisaged that life for herself as a dreamy youth. She had been so hesitant to pick up the paintbrush again, but she had found that even though so much time had passed, how swiftly and naturally it had come to her again, her faery painting taking a fine form indeed. And what a storyteller she had once been, always making up little storybooks of all the creatures in their garden and the adventures they would have. She had even won a children’s short story competition at their local library when she was eight.

She thought back on these stories and wondered if she had a children’s book amongst them, just waiting to be set to paper. She remembered one story in particular about a young sloth. She had been fascinated with sloths as a child and always vowed to one day visit the sloth sanctuary in Costa Rica. She loved facts about sloths. The fact that they were the only green mammal in so much as they move so slowly algae could be found growing on them. That they moved faster in water than on land. That they swam great distances of ocean between islands to answer the call of a promising mate.

Perhaps the story of the young sloth on sports day had what it took to enter this competition. Again, there it was, the glimmer of something in her that she had not felt since her mother’s passing. Perhaps, perhaps.

She could always take a break, a wee hiatus, from the editing work to commit herself to the competition. If you never tried you never knew, and if her to do list had taught her anything it was that taking a chance could be more rewarding than she could ever have imagined. For wasn’t that just the thing with yearning and opening your heart, that it inspired you to be bolder, more daring, and to strive for those things that resonated deep down in your soul?

And it was just so, that the seed was planted in Amelia and began to grow oh so steadily as she painted away that afternoon, with the water of her fountain trickling, and her river indigo growing ever boastful with its flowers. In no time at all it had seemed the sun was beginning to set and Amelia’s painting was nigh finished, and she had to admit even to herself, a rather remarkable copy given the years she had not practised the craft. Thoroughly cleaning her paintbrushes off as her mother would have insisted, it was time to begin preparing dinner.

Tal would be arriving any moment for the risotto Milanese she had promised for that evening. A comforting dish and some comforting company to wind down on what had indeed been a day of delights filled with promise.

Quickly she changed out of the worn and baggy tee into a more fitting blouse, still pared down though a little more presentable. She washed her face in front of the bathroom mirror where she’d smudged the odd stroke of watercolour on her cheeks and forehead, so lost in it she had been. Then she readied her kitchen counter with all she would need for the meal with Bellamy’s recipe.

25g butter

Half an onion

200g risotto rice

A quarter cup of dry white wine

Two cups of chicken stock

A pinch of saffron

50g grated Parmesan

Seasoning to taste

She melted half of the butter in a heavy bottomed pan and then stirred in the onions until they softened. Next she stirred in the rice for a couple of minutes, before pouring in the wine and allowing it to boil until it was all but completely absorbed by the Arborio rice. After this, she added half of the stock until this too had all but been absorbed. Then she stirred in the saffron with the remaining stock, finding such a simple joy in the golden hue as the threads of saffron began to colour the rice. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, her guest arriving just in time. All that was left now was to add in the cheese and remaining butter to make it truly oozy and unctuous.

“Did you paint this?” Tal held her faery painting aloft as he’d drifted outdoors to the patio table where she’d been painting.

“Um, yes, I used to paint a great deal as a child, enamoured as I was by mother’s talents and wanting to be just like her I guess.”

“Truly, Amelia, I don’t say this lightly but you have a real gift. This is fantastic.”

“Oh, thank you.” Amelia blushed and hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Feeling easy as always in his company, Amelia regaled Tal over dinner with her story of the young sloth and he laughed in genuine surprise.

“Quite the storyteller you are. Where, pray tell, has this Amelia been hiding all this time?”

“Far, far away.” Amelia suddenly felt a little teary, almost choking on her words.

“Well don’t ever go hiding her ever, ever again. She’s beautiful in all her splendour.” He gave her hand a squeeze.

It was like being seen, well and truly seen for the first time, and someone well and truly liking what they see. No longer the invisible Amelia, but someone who perhaps, perhaps had a wonderful talent indeed to share with the world.

“See, didn’t I tell you,” Portia turned to Georgina from the celestial stars above and Amelia slept peacefully that night.

Toadstools by Brian Froud from 'Faeries'