“Yes, I am.”
“Do you know your saints?”
Claudia couldn’t help feeling she was back in grade school and was being quizzed by a teacher.
“My father would mention a few of his favorite saints and what they were famous for, but I’m afraid I don’t remember the stories.”
“Saint Agatha is my favorite, which comes as no surprise since I chose her name when I took my vows as a nun. She refused to marry a wealthy Roman consul because she had dedicated herself to God and wished to remain a virgin. To punish her, the Roman consul had her imprisoned in a brothel, but she still refused to give up her virginity so she was tortured and her breasts were cut off.
“Traditionally, we would only prepare these miniature cakes for the feast day of Saint Agatha, which is February 5th, but they were so popular with our customers that we decided to carry them year round. And when our town holds its annual Saint Agatha feast, the Virgin’s Breasts are the first to sell out of all the food that is sold.”
“What is in Virgin’s Breasts?”
“They are actually miniature cassatas, which as I’m sure you know is a popular Sicilian cake. If you haven’t guessed it already, the cherry that tops the pastry is to give it the anatomical correctness of the virgin’s breast.”
“Ah! Of course.”
Claudia was tempted to delve right into the subject of Sorella Agata’s famous cassata, but she needed to be patient and wait for when the moment was right. She wondered if these miniature cassatas meant to symbolize Saint Agatha’s breasts were made with the same recipe that was used for the standard size of the cake. If the same recipe was used for the Virgin’s Breasts, then they must impart the intense, unique flavor that Sorella Agata’s cassata was famous for. Claudia leaned in to snap another photo of the miniature pastries, but this time she took a close-up. When she looked up from her camera, a tall, quite elderly nun stood in front of her.
“Per te,” she said to Claudia, imploring her to take the small plate holding two Virgin’s Breasts. Her voice was raspy and very low as if much effort was required to utter a full sentence.
“Grazie, Sorella.”
“Signorina Lombardo, this is Madre Carmela.”
“Piacere.” Claudia bowed her head toward the old nun, who bowed her head in return and smiled. Then she walked away slowly, shuffling her feet. It occurred to Claudia that Sorella Agata had referred to the old nun as madre. She was confused. Wasn’t Sorella Agata the mother superior at the convent?
“I’m sorry, Sorella Agata, but I noticed you referred to her as Madre Carmela. I thought you were the mother superior here?”
Sorella Agata smiled. “I am, but Madre Carmela was my predecessor. I still choose to call her madre out of respect.”
“Do the other nuns address her as madre as well?”
“No, I am the only one. And you’ll see the other nuns do not address me as Madre Agata. When I became the mother superior, I insisted they continue to call me Sorella Agata.”
Hmmm. Claudia found this interesting. It was as if Sorella Agata was not comfortable with setting herself apart from the nuns, but rather wanted to remain on an equal footing with them.
“Go ahead. Try them.” Sorella Agata motioned with her head toward the pastries on Claudia’s plate.
“I’ll just have one. Since I work with food, I have to pace myself.”
Sorella Agata frowned, and then gave Claudia a head-to-toe assessment, no doubt noticing how thin she was. Unlike Claudia’s parents, she refrained from scolding her, but her face held enough reproach.
Claudia broke off a piece of one of the Virgin’s Breasts with her fork and placed it in her mouth. Immediately, her mouth burst with flavor. Every taste bud was awakened. The miniature cassatas were beyond incredible! Surely, they had to be made from the same recipe as the regular-sized cassata cake that had made Sorella Agata famous. Claudia had gone to several authentic Italian-American bakeries in New York City before coming to Sicily and had tried their cassatas. While a few stood out more than the cassatas from other bakeries, they all still shared a common flavor. If Claudia had been blindfolded, she would have known each of those cakes was a cassata. She took another bite of the light but intensely sweet pastry, and again, each of her senses felt completely engaged. It was just as Felice, the cab driver, had described it. Before Claudia realized what she was doing, she had polished off both of the miniature cassatas. When she was done, she stared at her empty plate, realizing only then that she’d broken her earlier promise to have just one of the pastries. Sorella Agata was staring at her with a sly smile.
“They’re very delicious, si?”
“Si, sono incredibili! I don’t think I’ve ever tasted pastries quite as delicious as these.”
Sorella Agata looked pleased with Claudia’s comment. “You will probably say that with many of our sweets here. They are quite unique, especially in comparison to the American desserts.”
“You know about our desserts?”
“Yes, well, not personally. But I like to research and learn as much as possible about all pastries, not just Sicilian or Italian sweets. I make my own versions of apple pie and chocolate cake. But I’m sure they must not be as good as the ones you have in America.”
“You should make them for me some time, and I can tell you how close yours are to the American versions. Sorella Agata, you are quite a renowned pastry chef from what I’ve heard. There aren’t many pastry shops that have had world-class chefs visit them to sample their desserts, which brings me to the question I cannot wait to ask you, especially after sampling these heavenly pastries. I know we’ve only just met, and I haven’t officially started our interview, but I must ask you about your famous cassata.”
“Si, si. Everyone wants to know about that cake.” Sorella Agata sighed as she said this. No doubt she was tired of everyone’s asking her what her secret ingredient was, but that didn’t stop Claudia from posing the question.
“So then I will not be the first person to ask you, Sister, what is your secret ingredient for making the cassata surpass all other recipes that have come before? And I take it you are using the same recipe you use for the standard size of the cassata for these Virgin’s Breasts, which you said are just miniature cassatas.”
Claudia noticed a few of the other women had stopped their work and were eavesdropping on her conversation with Sorella Agata. Sorella Agata looked in their direction and frowned. With a wave of her hand, she motioned to Claudia to follow her out of the kitchen. Remaining silent, Sorella Agata led Claudia to a hallway filled with bedrooms. Claudia was surprised none of the doors to the rooms were shut. Sorella Agata finally stopped at a room at the end of the hall and gestured for Claudia to enter.
“This will be your room while you stay with us.”
Claudia was surprised to see the room was quite spacious, and she could tell from the distance of the next room in comparison to the others that this one was much larger. No doubt Sorella Agata wanted to give her a nicer room. Except for an ivory china vase filled with fresh daisies that sat atop a chest of drawers and sheer lace window panels, the décor was quite sparse. A crocheted white blanket covered the bed. Above the bed’s headboard, a cross made out of wood hung. The stems of two purple silk rosebuds were entwined around the cross’s center and were tied in place with a white ribbon.
“What a beautiful cross.” Claudia walked closer to examine it better.
“That was a gift.” Sorella Agata’s face looked sad as she let her eyes rest for a moment on the cross before saying, “I will let you rest and get settled. I’m sure you must be tired from your long trip. Please do not hesitate to let me or one of the other sisters know if there is anything you need.”
Claudia realized this was the sister’s way of telling her they would not be discussing right now the subject of the cassata. Usually, Claudia did not back down so easily when she was interviewing, and she had learned in her journalism courses that persistence was key. But this was an ent
irely different situation. She needed to show respect to Sorella Agata, and while the nun had exhibited meekness earlier, Claudia sensed she would not tolerate aggressive or disrespectful behavior. So all Claudia said for the moment was, “Grazie mille.”
Sorella Agata turned to leave, but Claudia stopped her.
“Oh, Sister?”
Sorella Agata paused, looking over her shoulder. “Si, Signorina Lombardo?” She seemed in a hurry to leave.
Claudia paused for a moment. “I’m sorry if I offended you with my pertness and impatience. I can imagine how frustrating it must be to always have everyone ask you about that cake, but you can understand their curiosity?”
“That is all right. No need for you to apologize. I was not offended, and I am sorry if I gave you that impression. The cassata is my most popular pastry at the shop, and its success has helped to make the business a prosperous one. I am very grateful for that. But I take pride in all of our baking. I have a . . . how do you Americans say something that is sour and sweet? I know there is a word for it.”
“Bittersweet?”
“Si, bittersweet. I have a bittersweet relationship with the cake. But that is another story. The truth is, Signorina Lombardo—”
“Please, call me Claudia, Sister.”
“Very well, as you wish. The truth is, Claudia, there is no secret ingredient. I’m sorry to disappoint you as I have no doubt disappointed the chefs who traveled here from as far as even Paris and Vienna to discover what sets my cassata apart from any other that has been made.”
“A few of the chefs have claimed you do not want to reveal your secret, which I wouldn’t blame you for, since it is after all your trademark dessert.”
Sorella Agata vehemently shook her head. “I tell you, there is no secret ingredient. I don’t like swearing to God, but if I were one who swore, I would take that oath. Maybe it is the ingredients we have here in Sicily?” Sorella Agata shrugged her shoulders before continuing. “You can watch me make the cake, and I will show you my recipe, which is in a recipe book that all of my workers use. I keep it in the kitchen. I have no secrets from anyone.”
“Forgive me once again, Sister, if I am being rude, but if that is true, why did you stop talking about the cake once you noticed the workers in the kitchen were listening to our conversation?”
“I refuse to give in to this ridiculous speculation, and it has caused my workers to question me in the past. That is not what we are about here at the Convento di Santa Lucia del Mela. I won’t have it. I have told them what I am telling you now. That is the end of the discussion. They should be focused on producing the finest pastries and serving our village, not on silly gossip created by a bunch of pompous, jealous chefs!”
Sorella Agata’s face was flaming beet red now. She walked over to the window and opened it. Taking a few deep breaths, she closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sister. I did not mean to upset you. As a food writer and interviewer, I have an inquisitive mind. Of course, I want this book to be special and I—”
“You thought the secret ingredient would be the magic to ensuring the success of your book?”
“Our book, Sister. This book will be your book as much as it is mine, and your name will appear as the coauthor.”
“That won’t be necessary, Claudia.”
“But you are contributing to the book. These are your pastries I will be writing about, and it is your story that will appear on the pages. After trying the Virgin’s Breasts, I can tell you are an extraordinary pastry chef and have a special gift. Why won’t you take the credit you deserve?”
“You forget, Claudia, I am a nun, and as such, the only credit I allow myself is that I am doing God’s work and serving Him as well as the people I strive to help. That is enough for me. I must confess. I had reservations about doing the book.”
“So why did you agree?”
“We could use the money.”
“Really? But the pastry shop seems to be doing so well from all the baked goods I saw in the kitchen and the lines of customers waiting to buy at the courtyard’s windows. You said so yourself earlier, and you are now taking in tourists as boarders. Surely, there must be enough income?”
“We are doing well. But the money would not be for the convent or the pastry shop. There is an organization we work with in town, and I would like to donate my share of the book’s proceeds to this organization.”
“That is very noble of you, Sorella Agata.”
“It is not out of nobleness that I am doing this. The organization does wonderful work. I would hate to see them have to close their doors after all they’ve done for the people in this village as well as the neighboring towns.”
“I understand.” Claudia was about to ask what kind of work the organization did when Sorella Agata said, “If you will please excuse me now.” She turned to leave, but Claudia stopped her again.
“One more thing, Sister. Would you mind if we began our interview after I’m settled? That is, if you won’t be busy with anything else? If I hope to cover everything, including watching you prepare the recipes you’d like me to include in the book, we’ll need to get started right away. I’m sure after all the years you’ve been here your story must be a long one.”
Sorella Agata’s eyes held a distant look as she responded. “That will be fine. Meet me in the courtyard in an hour. That should give you enough time to get settled and give me time to tie up a few things in the kitchen.”
“That’s perfect. Thank you, Sister. I’m really looking forward to hearing your story and seeing you create your recipes.”
Sorella Agata managed a small smile. “Yes, this will be something new for me as well. I hope to learn from you, too, Claudia.”
And with that Sorella Agata turned around and shut Claudia’s door quietly behind her.
Claudia let out a long sigh. She had almost blown it by bringing up so soon the secret ingredient in Sorella Agata’s cassata. But she was beginning to think the nun was telling the truth about not having a secret ingredient, if only for the fact that she was a woman of God and most likely averse to lying. But she was also human. Claudia sensed there was something else about that cake that unnerved Sorella Agata other than everyone’s claiming it possessed a secret ingredient. She had to tread carefully, but Claudia was determined to find out the full story behind this mysterious cake.
2
Biscotti all’Anice
ANISE COOKIES
Sorella Agata poured three and a half cups of flour onto her work surface—a marble butcher block she had custom made from the local craftsman. She shaped the flour into a small mound, and then, using her index finger, she swirled a hole in the center. Cracking four eggs expertly with one hand into a wooden bowl, she beat them vigorously with a fork until they turned the same golden hue as the marigolds that sat in a vase on the convent’s kitchen window ledge. Marigolds were her favorite flowers, and she loved looking at them when she was busy working. She dropped the egg mixture into the hole she had dug in the flour before adding sugar, olive oil, and a teaspoon of anise oil. No matter how much of a rush she was in, Sorella Agata always took the time to smell the licorice scent of the anise oil. But today the oil served a dual purpose as its fragrance soothed her frayed nerves.
Though she was meeting Claudia in under an hour, she decided to quickly make anise cookies. She would serve them to Claudia piping hot and would take pleasure in seeing the surprise on the writer’s face that the cookies had just come out of the oven. But that wasn’t her only reason for making the cookies. She needed to calm down before she sat down with Claudia. As she worked the dough for the biscotti, she instantly felt her muscles relax, and soon her racing thoughts slowed down. She had trained herself long ago in this form of meditation. While she prepared her prized sweets, she emptied her mind of all worries and just focused on the task before her.
She had to be careful when she kneaded dough that should not be overworked, as was the case with the dough for the anise coo
kies. If she was really preoccupied, she would keep kneading and kneading away, taking her frustrations out on the dough, only to discover later that it was too tough and useless to make the perfect biscotti. Instead of throwing out the dough and wasting it, Sorella Agata would still make the cookies, but would save them for her and the nuns to consume. After all, she could serve her customers nothing but the best.
Shaping the cookies into small braids, she spaced them a few inches apart on rimmed baking sheets lined with parchment paper, and then brushed egg wash over each one. After placing the sheets into the oven, she found her thoughts inevitably turning to her conversation with the writer.
“Stupida!” she muttered to herself.
Why did she let Claudia’s interrogation about the cassata affect her so much? Surely, she should be accustomed to all the speculation about the blasted cake.
They should be focused on producing the finest pastries and serving our village, not on silly gossip created by a bunch of pompous, jealous chefs!
Sorella Agata’s words came back to her, and she could feel her face flush again. How could she have called the chefs who had visited her pompous and jealous? She was letting her pride over her work take hold—a feeling she strived, as a nun, to keep at bay. Closing her eyes, she prayed, softly speaking the words aloud.
“Please, God, forgive me. Help me to remember that my work is done to serve You and others. I promise I will try harder not to let my anger get the better of me.”
Sorella Agata wished she could give Claudia, as well as the other chefs who had visited her, the answer they wanted. She wished she did have a secret ingredient that made her cassata taste as wonderful as it did. But she was just as baffled as the rest of them as to why her cake surpassed all others that had come before it. While the cassata had made Sorella Agata and her pastry shop famous, she still refused to cave in to the requests to make it available year-round as she was now doing with the Virgin’s Breasts pastries and even the marzipan fruit. She only baked cassata three times a year: for Valentine’s Day, Easter, and Christmas. And that was too much for her. As she had told Claudia, making the cake was a bittersweet task for her.
Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop Page 3
