Tortelloni di Zucca for Thanksgiving

What do you want to do for Thanksgiving? my husband asks me.

Not much, I say, since it’s just the two of us.  Violet Hill Farms sells those free-range, organic turkeys.

We could try one, I guess. They’re probably pretty good. But that’s all. No stuffing, none of that other stuff.

No way, just the turkey. And then, we should have one other thing. You really can’t eat just turkey.

Roasted potatoes, after some thought. That’s weird you should say that.

Weird why? I bought all these potatoes thinking the same thing. Promise me nothing else though. I promise, nothing else.

He orders the turkey the next day. Twelve pounds? I say. That was the smallest they had. I’m worried.

Don’t be worried, I’ll make turkey polpette with the leftovers. It’s his Nonna’s recipe. He’s tried it before. It never turns out like hers. Like I said, I’m worried.

A week later, it’s Thanksgiving. Hey, I have an idea, he wakes up and says.

Oh? You know I still have that butternut squash. Yes, I say suspiciously, which he notes. Never mind, he says.

What? You’re going to say no. How do you know? What do think about ravioli?

I’m not allowed to say no. He gets hurt when I say no. Ravioli it is, I say. Biting my tongue about the “nothing else” agreement we’d made a week ago.

You ready to start? It’s midmorning. I’m in the office, hiding. The turkey’s sewed up and in the oven, its innards—the neck and feet with their nails still attached—are reducing in a pan. The roux is next to it, a thickening mixture of butter and flower.

Start what? I might need your help. I’m thinking about a half moon shape this time. He holds up, all childlike and full of innocence, a round cookie cutter. You fold them That’s fine, but what do you need me for? It’s a rhetorical question. I know what he needs me for.

I dutifully follow him to the living room, where the pasta maker’s attached to the dining table and everything’s all laid out. I come over and sit down before a bowl, not a small bowl, of bright orange stuffing. He begins rolling out the first sheet.

I watch him, quietly pondering why we are celebrating Italy rather than America, and how it was inevitable that my husband’s country and its food traditions would come to overshadow mine. It is simply unconscionable for an Italian to have a celebratory meal without pasta. He cuts the circles. I spoon on the stuffing, fold. He shows me what I’m doing wrong—too much stuffing, too little stuffing.

No, close it like this. I’m closing it like that.

We fall into a rhythm. Time passes. An hour maybe. Isn’t this fun? he says.

Is he, or is he not, being facetious. The ball of dough is only a third gone, we’ve got three-dozen ravioli made, and my back hurts. Though it does feel mentally therapeutic, I admit. Perhaps because we are listening to Edith Piaf, the French jazz singer (I’d seen the movie La Vie in Rose, and bought her album.), and exchanging few, if any words. It’s the alcohol, I tell him about Edith, the first words I’ve spoken in a while. It eventually kills her. And then thinking about it I add, wryly, the way food might eventually kill us.

Two hours later, I peek under the cloth to find that the ball of dough is miraculously gone. Is that really the last one? He’s just rolled out a sheet of dough the length of a broomstick. Yes, he smiles. I fall ceremoniously out of my chair to lie flat out on the floor.

One hundred is our count, eighteen of which we’ll eat tonight (twelve for him and six for me.) The rest to the freezer, and I’m wondering which lucky future dinner guests of ours he’ll deem worthy enough for a serving.

Three hours later, our ravioli are steaming in bowls before us, soaked in a butter sage sauce. Succulent, savory, I’m dumbfounded every time, as if how can this be? When I can speak again I ask him to repeat the ingredients in the stuffing, besides the squash.

Parmigano, egg, and breadcrumbs, he tells me.

And they’re called ravioli, not agnolotti? Yes.

My husband is from the north of Italy, agnolotti his calling, and so I just want to be clear. What makes agnolotti agnolotti again? I answer before he can speak.

Agnolotti have that very specific, pork and veal stuffing, right? I’ve endured the passionate pasta lectures enough to know by now. And the shape of agnolotti is square, right, not half moon shaped like these? Or, it’s the region, that’s it, agnolotti is a Piemonte thing, and ravioli are from the south. I’m rather proud of the knowledge I’ve acquired about these matters, though for the first time he himself looks confused. Normally he’s very passionate about which pastas to eat when and where and with what, but tonight he seems lulled into some kind of indifference.

You said the recipe was called Tortelloni di Zucca, I continue, but I thought tortellini was that small twisted donut?

He looks at me absently. The recipe said tortell-O-ni, he says. And it’s not the shape it’s the size. It’s bigger, I think. He looks down into his bowl. There is only two left. Agnolotti, ravioli, tortelloni, he shrugs and says, ten Italians might give you ten different answers.

By the way, I say, after we’ve had our turkey, which really won’t be celebrated until it turns into polpette tomorrow. What would your grandmother think if she knew you were substituting turkey for veal into her polpette recipe?

She’d say in that case be sure to add butter.