Mrs. DeLuca's Kitchen
Bridgette Elise Jakubowicz's place was as immaculate as ever--because, of course, it was. White marble countertops, gleaming stainless steel appliances, and the kind of recessed lighting that made everything (and everyone) look a little more expensive. If Carina Marie Delvecchio had any complaints, it was that the whole place felt like an Architectural Digest spread. Not a single misplaced dish towel, no crumpled-up takeout menus stuck in drawers. A kitchen like this deserved a little lived-in chaos.
Luckily, she and Zachary Noah Rannis were here to provide it.
Bridgette, effortlessly put-together in a navy blouse with the sleeves rolled up, was at the stove, minding a saucepan like it owed her money. Gianna Rosalita DeLuce hovered beside her, grating parmesan with a level of focus that suggested she feared for her life if the curls weren't perfect.
Carrie and Zach had been assigned prep work, which meant peeling potatoes and not touching anything expensive. Well, Zach was peeling potatoes. Carrie was mostly sipping from her wine glass and critiquing his technique.
"That's not how you hold a peeler, genius," she said, elbowing him in the ribs.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Iron Chef Carrie, should I be doin' a fuckin' spiral cut?" He peeled aggressively, slamming the strips into the bowl. "I swear to God, I'll make these into potato chips outta spite."
"You don't even own a mandoline." Gianna said, smiling.
"Mandoline is a fuckin' instrument."
"Mandolin is an instrument, dumbass," Gianna corrected, not looking up from her grating.
"Enough of that," Angela Francesca Rosa DeLuca scolded mildly, but there was a smile at the edges of her voice. She was stirring something in a heavy-bottomed pot, an apron tied neatly over her blouse. She watched her girls with a measure of exasperation and pride.
Zach muttered something under his breath about South Philly girls being a menace before flicking a bit of potato peel at Carrie's shoulder. She gasped like he'd shot her.
"Bridgette! Your brother-in-law is disrespecting the sanctity of your kitchen!"
Bridgette turned, deadpan. "I'm sorry, does he still have fingers? Then he's fine."
Carrie smirked, triumphant.
Gianna, ever the peacemaker, slid in between them, pressing a quick kiss to Bridgette's cheek before grabbing another knife. "Alright, alright, let's not start a war before dinner. Zach, I'll help with the potatoes. Carrie, go set the table."
Carrie let out an exaggerated groan. "I hate setting tables. Why do I always get stuck with table duty?"
"Because you make us nervous with knives," Bridgette said dryly, turning back to her sauce.
Zach snorted. "She does have the energy of someone who'd stab ya just to see what it felt like."
Bridgette hummed in agreement.
Carrie narrowed her eyes at both of them before stomping off toward the dining area, but not before stealing a taste from Gianna's bowl of parmesan on her way out.
"Hey!"
"I live dangerously."
The kitchen continued in its steady rhythm--Bridgette commanding the stove, Gianna and Zach working side by side, Angie supervising, and Carrie half-assing her way through setting the table with a theatrical sigh every few minutes.
But it was warm. Comfortable.
And when Bridgette glanced over her shoulder at Gianna, smiling at something Zach said, her face softened in a way that even the best kitchen lighting couldn't fake.
"Mrs. Jakubowicz..."
Bridgette still got a kick out of saying it.
Carrie bitched about setting the table, because that was the natural order of things. If she didn't bitch about it, someone might think she actually liked doing it. And that? That could not be allowed.
So she sighed. She muttered. She draped herself dramatically over the dining table for a full three seconds before shoving herself upright and getting to work.
Bridgette's dining room was as swanky as the rest of the place--high ceilings, moody lighting, a long polished table that probably cost more than Carrie's entire apartment. The chairs were heavy, the kind you needed two hands to move, and the walls were lined with bookshelves, because of course they were.
Carrie opened a drawer and found, to her absolute horror, that Bridgette owned cloth napkins and copper napkin rings.
"Jesus Christ," she muttered under her breath, shaking one out. "What am I even supposed to do with these?"
The answer was fold them, but she wasn't about to start some fine dining origami nonsense. Instead, she settled for rolling them up and shoving them inside the rings. Fancy but not too fancy. Carrie Fancy™.
She laid out the silverware with more precision than she'd ever admit, set down the plates, adjusted them by millimeters until everything looked right. The wine glasses gleamed under the low lighting, and she took a step back, eyes scanning the table like a critical artist evaluating a final brushstroke.
It looked good. It looked...right.
There was something about all of this--the kitchen full of laughter, the smell of simmering sauce and garlic, Gianna and Zach bickering, Angie supervising like the true matriarch she was--that made Carrie's chest ache in a way she didn't totally understand.
It was cozy. It was home, in a way she didn't often let herself think about.
Her fingers skimmed along the back of one of the chairs before she caught herself, shaking the moment off.
Instead, she turned back toward the kitchen and announced, way too loudly,
"Alright, the table is set, the ambiance is impeccable, and I begrudgingly acknowledge that I am a domestic goddess. Where's my reward?"
Bridgette, still at the stove, didn't even turn around. "Your reward is that we let you stay for dinner."
Carrie scoffed. "That's cold."
Gianna glanced over, shooting her a knowing smile, before setting down her grater and stepping into the dining room. She looked at the table, then at Carrie, then back at the table.
"You actually did a good job."
Carrie smirked. "Don't sound so surprised, Mrs. Jakubowicz."
Gianna's lips twitched. "You know, that does have a nice ring to it."
Bridgette, still at the stove, hummed in agreement. "It really does."
Carrie rolled her eyes but couldn't fight the smile.
Dinner wasn't even on the table yet, but damn if this didn't already feel like a meal worth remembering.
The moment they sat down, it was on.
Gianna was still scooping pasta onto her plate when she started talking, because why wait? Angie already had a fork in hand, gesturing as she told a story about someone she ran into at the market, her words flowing fast and fluid between bites. Carrie, naturally, kept pace, jumping in with her own commentary, waving a piece of bread like it was a microphone.
Zach and Bridgette?
Eating like normal people.
Bridgette twirled her pasta neatly, her posture perfect, taking controlled bites, chewing before speaking. Zach was less polished--elbows on the table, chewing with that kind of slow, methodical efficiency that suggested he was enjoying himself--but compared to the chaos happening across the table, he might as well have been at high tea with the queen.
It was painfully obvious who grew up together.
"Oh, and then, after all that, she's gonna tell me--" Angie pointed her fork at Carrie, chewing mid-sentence, "--that I shoulda just minded my business."
Carrie scoffed. "You?! Mind your business?! Since when?"
Gianna cackled, nearly choking on her bite of bread. "Oh my God, she did not--"
"She did."
"No way--"
"She did!"
Bridgette exhaled, dabbing at her mouth with one of her immaculate cloth napkins. "I feel like I'm at a zoo exhibit."
Carrie turned to her, mouth full of pasta. "Welcome to South Philly, bitch."
Zach finally chimed in, watching the three of them talk through bites, forks waving, gesturing with entire pieces of bread. "I don't know how none of you are choking right now."
Gianna grinned. "We have technique."
Bridgette gave her a long, slow look. "You definitely don't."
Carrie shrugged. "Nah, we just have good luck."
"And a real strong gag reflex," Gianna added.
Carrie cackled. "Fuckin' facts!"
Bridgette closed her eyes like she was praying for strength. Zach made a soft groan, rubbing his temples.
Angie, unfazed, kept eating.
"So anyway," Angie continued, smoothly ignoring the whole exchange, "this woman tells me I need to mind my business, but she's the one out here tellin' the butcher how to cut my steak--"
