Cappelletti

"Cappelletti," decides the six-year-old I'm babysitting after a contemplative pause.

I wonder for the nth time what possessed me to answer in the affirmative when I was asked if I would mind just 'picking her up from school and feeding her lunch before you begin the lesson'. Still, here I am in their kitchen and I can't exactly tell a six-year-old that she will have to starve for the afternoon just because I am a bit frightened of her stove. For one, it would completely shatter her trust in adults.

And anyway, it's not so hopeless, is it? I happen to know that cappelletti are smallish and roundish, because I saw a picture on a poster in a bus stop. I vaguely recall having read the "cappelletti in brodo" on a menu somewhere, which presumably means that they should be served in broth. Or cooked in broth. Or something similar. And I have a more or less concrete idea that broth can be made by dissolving a little cube of brown dust in the water. Splendid.

Armed with this information, I turn back to the freezer while my little student looks on expectantly. Towards the top, there seems to be quite a variety of liquor, ranging from things I recognize (limoncello - because it is bright yellow, you see) to things I don't (brownish, amberish, darkish, clear, etc.). This is probably good to keep in mind in case the cooking for the boss' daughter doesn't go entirely as planned. On the shelves below that, there are many paper bags.

I open one experimentally, but it contains squarish ones that are probably tortelli. This bit of knowledge boosts my confidence: I am cultured and knowledgeable! I can (more or less) recognize tortelli! I smile and resume my search. It transpires that there are no fewer than three bags containing smallish roundish stuffed-looking pasta. I sigh. Their contents all look completely identical to me. Come to think of it, perhaps they are. Perhaps the only difference is that some of them are already expired and if I choose to serve her those, I will poison her and be fired (and possibly put to death). Little Student raises her eyebrows at me. She is far too clever for her own good, and, what's worse, I think she knows it. Also, she is adorable, which doesn't help.

"How about these?" I say conversationally, holding out one of the bags. The little frozen round things rattle interestingly.

"Those are tortellini," she informs me, rather witheringly, switching from midwest American (courtesy of her mother) to her lucky little native speaker's accent for the last word.

Indeed. There's nothing for it. This will be like that time I helped her with her reading homework and had to get out a dictionary to figure out what arrampicatore meant. ('Climber', in case you're curious. It was in reference to squirrels, I think.)

"Well, then which ones do you want?" I am a coward and try to make it seem like it is a personal choice on her part, rather than my pasta-related ignorance, that is causing difficulty here. Like I said, though, she is a bright kid. She points to one of the bags.

"These are the cappelletti," she says confidently, before scampering off to play with her Disney princess dolls, some of which, it appears, speak Italian, while others speak English. I reflect that she would make an interesting case study, and attempt to console myself with the intellectual quality of this thought while I turn on the stove and stab at the cube of broth-making stuff with a fork so that it will dissolve more quickly.

I inspect the bags of frozen pasta again while I wait for the water to boil but I still don't see much of a difference. Perhaps the cappelletti are slightly more orange. And maybe ever so slightly smaller. But other than that they look exactly the same. Upon later reflection, it occurs to me that perhaps the shape is slightly different. Or the spacing of the wavy bits on the edges. But probably you have to be born Emiliana to see it.

While I am ruefully contemplating this, my little charge scampers back into the kitchen with an important look on her face.

"You have to put the brown square into the water," she informs me sagely, "that makes the brodo. Otherwise it's just water."

I reflect that it's lucky for my self-esteem that I'm tall enough to reach the stove and she isn't. Otherwise I would feel profoundly useless.

P.S. Cappelletti is rather tricky to spell: three sets of doppie! But this makes it fun to say.