"Hi, Jake. Got the day off too, I see."

"Yeah, Angela. Ya gotta love Columbus. You do all your food shopping here at Raley's?"

"Most of it. But you're dead wrong about loving Columbus. Loads of folks here dump all over him."

"Yup. I've noticed that in recent years. I guess some Californians have to blame someone for perceived wrongs. What aisle can I find cans of gravy?"

"Down that aisle over there, I think. Whatcha gonna cook?"

"Spaghetti. What else. It's Columbus Day."

"So, if you're gonna make spaghetti, what do you want gravy for?"

Jake turned to her with a quizzical expression. "For the idiot spaghetti, Angie, what else?"

Angela deadpanned him. With no change in her voice, she said, "Jake, you want sauce, not gravy, you nunge. Que fa, goombah?" She nudged her shopping cart into his.

"Go easy on me, Angela. I'm from California. I'm not you're East Coast Mafia type. Okay?"

"I can tell. Your tan doesn't come naturally, like mine." She walked her cart to the other end of the aisle. Jake took after her in hot pursuit.

"Hey, Angie. How about coming over to my place and having Columbus Day dinner with me tonight?"

"Jake, I'm not in the habit of being picked up in the local super market. Even though GQ and other gentlemen's magazines may suggest it as a hot locale." She went to the meat counter. Jake followed.

I may have made a mistake, she thought. I hope Jake doesn't connect me and the meat counter as a subtle psychological Freudian come-on. Nah. He's not that sharp. Cute, but not that sharp.

"Listen, Angie. Maybe you could give me some cooking advice. Since you're an apparent resident expert in Italian cuisine, why not come to my place and show me the intricacies of the Italian kitchen? I'll follow your directions and we can have a good meal together. I've got a nice bottle of Chianti."

She looked over the items in Jake's shopping cart. "Yes, so I see. That's the good stuff. My favorite."

"Jake, you're a cool guy. Got persistence, too. And I like that in a man. But you wouldn't know the difference between a sausage and a bratwurst. You're hopeless." She pushed her cart forward.

"Think of it as a challenge, Ange. Someone you could mold into your own personal idea of a good cook." He followed her slow pace down the aisle as she examined items in the refrigerated case.

Angela stopped browsing through the cold meats and looked into Jake's playful face. She saw an expression of excited and hopeful anticipation beaming back at her. There's some warmth in that smile of his. "Maybe you could learn," she said.

"Just tell me what we'll need." He moved his cart in the direction of the aisle where the sauces were stacked.

"Now, you're gonna follow everything I say, right, Jake?"

"Yup."

"You aren't conning me with that 'I don't know what I'm doing, why don't you help me,' routine, are you? Just because you think you know women like to feel superior?"

"What's the difference, Angie? We'll have a super dinner together. And okay, I admit I shop here because I know you shop here. And yes, I know the difference between gravy and sauce, and pasta and noodles."

"Persistence," she said. "Ya gotta love it."

On their way to the ethnic foods aisle, Jake said, "Do you think Columbus was the cause of the New World's problems?"

"Don't be ridiculous. If it wasn't Columbus it would have been someone else a little bit later on."

"Yeah. I know. But I'm glad he made it in those little boats of his because I'm really looking forward to our dinner tonight."

When they stopped their carts at the pasta display, she pointed. He picked the Ronzoni.

"Sono boni," Angela said.

"Abudanza," Jake countered. "Bene, bene."

"I've been had," Angie said.