"It's mortadella and sliced provolone. Your mom said that's your favorite combo."

"Yes, it is. My dad's too."

Richard wrinkled his nose. "Italian bologna seasoned with splats of fat and bits of peppercorn."

"What about you, Evie, do you like Italian cold cuts?" Henry asked.

"Dried pepperoni sausage is not my favorite. But I have eaten Mortadella. It's not bad. Kinda like bologna, but larger and spicier, and yes, as Richard puts it," she chuckled, "splats of fat and bits of peppercorn. On special holidays, the nuns served it with other cold cuts in the holiday lunch platters. One of the home's benefactors was an Italian restaurant owner. We got to taste a medley of his Italian dishes."

"Richard doesn't care for Italian food. He does eat it at home. Growing up, we ate what was put on our plates. And Dad, descendent of a long-line of immigrant Italian colonists, was no stranger to their cuisine. If it wasn't for Geraldine with her Anglo-American and European dishes, and my mother's taste for French cuisine, we might never have known the pleasure of diversified cuisines."

"Here comes Anne," Richard said. She looks a bit tired.

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