Farm

The apartment was a typical East London Victorian terrace house conversion. The windows shook in the ground-floor living room every time a bus drove past—too big for the street and not big enough for the passengers. I dropped the ash from the joint into the blue ashtray that Shane had probably stolen from the bar next door.

It was a Wednesday, late afternoon. We’d been out last night and were both feeling the effects of our overindulgence and lack of sleep.

The soft smell of frozen supermarket pizzas drifted in from the kitchen. I passed the joint to Shane, stood up, pulled my skirt down over my overexposed legs, and made my way over to the oven.

Ready, love? I asked him.

Always ready for my Crosgini funghi, babe.

They say it’s the cheese that makes the difference.

Haha yeah, maybe. You know the story about all that? Can’t remember if I told you already.

I sat down and pulled my legs under my ass. I loved it when Shane told me stories. Yes, I had heard this one before, but he was sexy and I was tired, so I sat back and settled in for the ride…

…Crossgar is a long way from Florence—not just physically, but culturally—and it’s still hard to imagine how Luigi, Valentina, Ciara, and Giuseppe ended up there, in Northern Ireland, in 1991. Something to do with passports was the initial issue: a robbery, a car breakdown, and a conversation in a bar.

So, a night’s stay turned into a week, then a month, then a year. Ciara and Peppe started at the local school, Valentina helped with a neighbour’s childcare, and Luigi first started working at Dad’s pub, then slowly grew the catering side of the business.

Crossgar—I always remember it as rainy, with low grey skies over expansive green fields bordered by hedges and old fences, their crooked posts strung with rusty barbed wire. The village’s main attraction in those days was the road that took you in, through it, and efficiently out, serving the province’s population as they drove from north to south and south to north—100% of them passing by and not noticing the village at all. Nondescript and uninteresting, it was just about okay. Nice enough. It wasn’t a bad place to grow up. We’d hang out by the roundabout and smoke, drink cans of cheap warm beer.

Luigi always worked hard. He was there—quiet, consistent, never late, always polite—helping the pub make toasted sandwiches, Irish stew, and fish and chips. But you could see he wanted more. And when the Chinese takeaway closed its sticky doors for the last time, it felt like only five minutes later that Luigi had a sign up: Crosgini Pizzas. The whole family worked there, proud. Grandma’s recipe, apparently.

But here’s the thing—mozzarella. Where the hell do you get it in ’90s Northern Ireland? Shit, McDonald’s arrived there after it had set up in Russia, hahaha. (Shane loved that joke; I laughed charitably.) Nope. No way. No sign. And see, he hadn’t thought of this, so his whole business plan was up in smoke.

I remember when he finally gave up and came into Dad’s pub and sat there, looking glum. Poor guy. We all tried to cheer him up. That night there was a musician playing—a local guy from down the road. After his set, he sat down near Luigi. I poured them pints and listened to it all.

Luigi told the musician, Pat Dan, the whole story of his pizza dreams. Pat listened attentively and, at the end, looked up at Luigi.

Get some buckets.

You—looking at me—you get some more.

I checked Luigi, who appeared confused but left, returning with four large buckets. I found two in the back and headed outside to meet Pat.

With six metal buckets, we started out, following Pat along the path as it hugged the main road. Walking in the winter darkness, the rain falling like icy needles, I felt the cold seep through my clothes. Pat refused to talk. I had no idea where we were going—neither did Luigi—but he looked resigned to the situation, and so we trudged along in single file, in silence, smoking cigarettes. We must have looked like a ramshackle steam train.

After around forty-five minutes, Pat suddenly stopped.

We’re here, lads.

Where’s here?

The farm. Stay quiet—we shouldn’t be here.

We crossed the road and walked up a narrow lane. It was so dark I didn’t know if my eyes were open or closed. A few minutes later we were outside a barn, and I could hear the cattle inside—soft movement, the sound of snorted breathing, and a warmth I was dying for. Pat climbed over the fence.

This is illegal, lads.

He approached a heifer, put a bucket under her, and proceeded to milk.

Copy what I am doing.

Milk a cow? Jesus, what the fuck. I saw Luigi move silently to another heifer and, following Pat’s signals, do the same. What could I do? An hour later, we had six buckets—around thirty litres—of raw, unpasteurised milk, and we were walking back up the road to the village.

Do you know how to make mozzarella, Luigi? said Pat.

I do, he replied quietly.

Good luck, so.

That was thirty-five years ago. So yeah, I guess you’re right, babe—maybe it is all in the cheese.

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Publisher Notice Published by La Fuente de Jade (Spain). © All rights reserved. This work is protected under applicable copyright and intellectual property laws.