Free Margherita's Notebook by Elisabetta Flumeri, Gabriella Giacometti

wasn’t the sort of person who liked to while away her time, and the situation was starting to worry her: if she planned to stay, then she was going to have to find a job that would allow her to support herself. The more she thought about it, the more her worries grew.
    Armando had figured this out because of the refrigerator, which each day became filled more and more with delicacies of all kinds: from crème caramel to miniature chocolate truffles, zucchini parmigiana to tuna-and-potato loaf, from five-grain salads to thinly sliced salmon, tuna, stone bass . . .
    â€œIf you keep this up, we’re going to have to invite the whole town over so that we won’t need to waste any of these delicious dishes,” her father said one day, whileMargherita was trying out a new recipe in their small kitchen. “Since you got here, I’ve put on two whole pounds. And that’s not good, kiddo!”
    Margherita smiled. “You’re right; I need to find something else to do.”
    At that moment the phone rang again. Armando gave his daughter an inquiring look.
    â€œIf it’s Francesco again, I’m not here,” was her answer.
    Armando nodded and went to pick up the phone while Margherita, more energetically than usual, prepared the base for an Amalfitana cake, working the sugar into the butter.
    From the other room she could hear Armando’s calm voice: “I know it’s hard, Francesco, but this time it was too much even for Margherita . . . No . . . NO . . . it’s pointless for you to keep calling, she’s made up her mind, she wants to stay here . . . That’s enough already! You call her a dozen times a day, give her some breathing space!”
    Shaking her head, Margherita added eggs, flour, cocoa, and hazelnuts that she’d toasted and finely ground to make the batter.
    Why was he being so persistent? Wasn’t Meg enough for him anymore?
    She poured the batter into a cake pan.
    By leaving him she’d actually done him a favor.
    Armando came back into the kitchen.
    â€œHe just can’t resign himself to it, and he sounds like he’s sincerely sorry. What’re you thinking of doing?”
    Margy frowned at her father.
    â€œDon’t you take his side!” she scolded him, popping the cake into the oven.
    Armando looked at her tenderly.
    â€œHow could I? But are you sure you did the right thing? Don’t you miss him?” he asked her hesitantly, probing his daughter’s feelings.
    For a few seconds, Margherita was quiet as she strained ricotta through the food mill, and then began folding in the confectioners’ sugar and whipped cream.
    â€œNo, Armando,” she replied finally, “I don’t miss him, that is one thing I am sure about.” She dipped a finger into the filling and tasted it to check the texture. A smile lit up her face.
    â€œPerfect. Just the right balance—you can’t taste the ricotta and you can’t taste the whipped cream.”
    Armando knit his eyebrows.
    â€œThen why are you cooking so much? What’s bothering you?”
    She couldn’t lie to her father.
    â€œI have to decide what I want to be when I grow up,” she answered bluntly. “If I want to stay in Roccafitta, I’m going to have to find a job.”
    â€œWhy don’t you try talking to Giulia? She runs her own farmhouse business. Who knows, maybe she needs help for the tourist season. She’s all by herself and it might be useful for her to have a helping hand,” Armando suggested, thinking that this would also give him an excuse to see his lovely Argentinean friend more often.
    Margherita smiled.
    â€œIt’s worth a try. Why not?” As she said this, Margherita took the small saucepan where she’d cooked the diced pears, added them to the filling, and then put everything in the refrigerator until the cake was ready.

    â€œI’m here because