“Rosalia, there is a chance you might be right. I will not tell you what you want to hear. But there is also a chance you might be wrong. We just don’t know for certain how your parents felt. The only people who know are your parents. And until you see them again, you cannot torment yourself by believing they thought the worst of you.”
Rosalia took a deep breath. “I suppose you’re right, Madre.” She walked around the kitchen, her eyes resting on different spots in the room. Madre Carmela could see what she was doing. She was remembering the times she had shared with her family. Rosalia went over to a wooden icebox that stood opposite a pantry door. She opened the icebox and gasped. Madre Carmela could not see her face since the door was blocking her view.
“What is it, Rosalia?” Madre Carmela hurried to her side and peered over her shoulder.
The icebox was empty except for the middle shelf, which contained a neatly lined up row of six jars. Madre Carmela leaned in to get a better view of the jars. It was her turn now to gasp when she saw the labels on each of the jars. A square white piece of linen was tied to each of the jars with two thin strips of purple ribbon. Embroidered on the center of the linen label were the words Marmellata di Tarocchi di Rosalia.
Madre Carmela picked up each of the jars. They were all full with Rosalia’s mother’s signature blood orange marmalade, and the seals had not been broken on any of the jars’ lids.
“Do you know what this means, Rosalia?”
“I think so,” she whispered before her eyes met Madre Carmela’s.
“Your mother hoped you would return and find these jars. That’s why your name is on the jars and not your Nonna Caterina’s. She left them here for you. This was not a mistake, Rosalia. Your family took everything in the house. No other food is in the icebox. The blood orange marmalade is all that your mother left behind, and she knew how much you loved it. She was trying to give you a message. Do you understand? These jars of marmalade were a sign from your mother to let you know she still loves you.”
Rosalia’s heart felt like it would burst. She had suspected on her own all that Madre Carmela had said, but had been too afraid to voice the words. She had also noticed that the labels on the jars were tied with purple ribbons—her favorite color. Surely if Madre Carmela had come to the same conclusion as Rosalia had, she couldn’t be wrong. And if she were right about this, then perhaps Mamma still believed Rosalia had not dishonored her family by running off with Marco. Rosalia had not abandoned them, and she would not abandon them. Somehow she would find her way back to her family.
8
Cannoli
October 8, 2004
Claudia was taking a stroll through the convent’s courtyard. Every day since she’d arrived in Sicily, she had made it a point to do so. Her mind felt clear, and she was relaxed as she walked around the convent’s property and enjoyed its peaceful surroundings. She needed to take some time for herself when she returned to New York and have these solitary moments instead of rushing from one task to another.
Though she woke up early with the nuns to watch them at work in the pastry shop, she still felt rested and rejuvenated here. It must be the fresh mountain air and the serenity of the convent. While she was kept busy between watching the workers bake their heavenly creations during the day, and then conducting her interviews with Sorella Agata in the evening, she wasn’t as exhausted as she was when she was just as busy back home.
A bluethroat flew by, startling Claudia from her thoughts. The bird landed on the ground and began pecking at a puddle of rainwater that had collected earlier this morning when there were a few showers. There were many birds on the convent’s property, but this was the first time Claudia had spotted a bluethroat. Her father was a birdwatcher and, when she was a child, he used to point out pictures of birds to her in the books on birdwatching he collected. There were a few birds that were her favorites—the cardinal, the blue jay, and the bluethroat—all birds that stood out to her because of their beautiful colors. And the bluethroat’s most striking feature was the band of iridescent blue combined with black, white, and burnished orange color on its breast. Her father had explained to her that bluethroats were mainly found in Europe and Asia, and a few had been spotted in western Alaska. She slowly inched closer to the bird to get a better look. The bird paused from drinking and glanced at her for a moment before flying off. Claudia shivered slightly. That was odd. It was as if the bird had stared right into her eyes.
Pushing the bluethroat from her mind, she thought about Rosalia. Ever since Sorella Agata had begun recounting the story of the young girl the nuns had rescued by the cave, Claudia could not stop thinking about her. She couldn’t imagine how that poor girl had survived that ordeal with Marco’s keeping her hostage in a cave of all places and raping her, only to then lose her family. Though Claudia was absolutely riveted by Rosalia’s story, she was confused as to how Rosalia had influenced Sorella Agata’s pastry making. All she could imagine was that Sorella Agata must’ve learned pastry making from Rosalia when she joined the convent. Did that mean that Rosalia had been at the convent for a long time before she was reunited with her family? Claudia knew there was no one at the convent named Rosalia. She had made it a point to introduce herself to all the nuns and the lay workers.
Claudia couldn’t help wondering how long Rosalia’s story was. She needed to start learning more about Sorella Agata if she hoped to get all the information she needed for this book. At least she was making swift progress watching Sorella Agata make her pastries. Claudia had already begun typing up the recipes and adding the history of the pastry and anything else that Sorella Agata felt was important to convey about the sweets.
Claudia still hadn’t observed the nun make her famous cassata. But she trusted Sorella Agata and knew she would let Claudia watch her make the cake. There was something about the nun that made Claudia feel very comfortable in her presence. It wasn’t just that she was a spiritual woman; it was just . . . Well, Claudia couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was about Sorella Agata that made her easy to talk to, although Sorella Agata had been the one doing most of the talking.
Claudia glanced at her watch. She’d taken a longer break than she should have and had told Sorella Agata she would be back in the kitchen soon so she could watch her make cannoli.
“You cannot have a book about Sicilian pastries without including cannoli!” Sorella Agata had laughed when she told Claudia yesterday that they would cover cannoli today.
Claudia had had her fill of cannoli growing up with an Italian-American father and living in New York City. So it would be interesting to see how they tasted here in Sicily.
She made her way back to the convent’s kitchen. As she walked among the worktables and counters, she still marveled at how dedicated all the workers appeared to be. Everyone seemed as if she was enjoying her work, and no one appeared to be giving a half-hearted effort.
Claudia spotted Sorella Agata at a small table in the back of the kitchen. Her back was turned toward Claudia, but Claudia could see she was scooping out curds of milk and putting them into a colander lined with cheesecloth. Sorella Agata must’ve gotten impatient waiting for Claudia to return from her break and had begun making the ricotta for the cannoli.
Claudia was about to apologize to Sorella Agata, but then she froze when she saw the nun was weeping silently. She picked up her apron and wiped her tears, but then a new set of tears sprang. Not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable, Claudia turned around to leave, but kicked a cookie cutter that someone had dropped onto the floor. The cookie cutter slammed against the leg of a cabinet that stocked baking supplies.
“Ah! Claudia! There you are. I was beginning to think you were just going to enjoy the day and not come back to the kitchen.”
Claudia glanced over her shoulder and saw that Sorella Agata was quickly wiping the tears from her face. Claudia stood and waited where she was, pretending to rub out a nonexistent stain from her shirt, until Sorella Agata was ready to look up.<
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“Vieni! Come! Why are you standing so far away? Don’t you want to see me make the ricotta?”
Sorella Agata was lining a second colander with three layers of cheesecloth before she finally turned to Claudia. Though her eyes were red, the tears were all gone now.
“I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t notice the time. I don’t know what it is about Italy, but it’s easy not to glance at your watch.” Claudia smiled as she picked up a spare clean apron that hung from a nail on a wall near the baking supplies cabinet.
“That’s good! It shows you are relaxing more instead of rushing all the time. I know how you Americans are always hurrying and don’t stop to enjoy life. We work hard here, too, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, Claudia. But we also know work is only one part of life.”
Sorella Agata began pouring milk into a saucepan and telling Claudia the measurements for each ingredient to make the ricotta. Claudia was still amazed that Sorella Agata rarely had to refer to her recipe book and could remember most of the measurements off the top of her head.
“How is it, Sorella Agata, that you can remember most of your measurements without looking at your recipe book?”
“In Sicily, we bake differently. Every time we bake, the measurements could be off by a little. But we know here and here how much to add of an ingredient.” Sorella Agata pointed to her eyes and her heart.
“Really? But in America, I’ve always heard baking is an exact science, unlike cooking, for which you can estimate how much of an ingredient is needed by looking. I’ve always heard that in order for your baking to come out right you must measure your ingredients exactly.”
“Si. That is why I said in Sicily we do it differently. I know how bakers measure everything in America. But our way is more . . . Ah! I cannot think of the word. We become one with our creations, and how can you create something truly extraordinary if you’re not using your senses to do so? Even though I’m looking to see how much flour or sugar or whatever other ingredient to add, I also listen to my heart. That is how you can create something truly wonderful.”
“Maybe that’s the secret to your cassata!” Claudia laughed, but Sorella Agata frowned at the mention of the cake that was such a sore point for the nun to discuss.
“We all bake by memory. Only the newer nuns and workers refer to the recipe books, and, in no time, they soon can remember the recipes by heart. It is not like I am only doing this for the cassata.”
“I was just making a joke, Sister. I’m sorry.”
Claudia remained silent as she listened to Sorella Agata explain how to make the ricotta. Once Claudia was ready to scoop out the curds from the milk and transfer them to the second colander lined with cheesecloth, Sorella Agata took out of the refrigerator a large bowl of ricotta that had been made yesterday.
“Now is the fun part. We sweeten this ricotta and then we fill the cannoli shells. Ah!” Sorella Agata hit her forehead with her palm. “I didn’t show you how to make cannoli shells. I don’t know what’s the matter with me today. This is the second thing I’ve forgotten.”
“That’s all right. You can just tell me how the shells are made. I don’t need to watch you make those. Why don’t we fill the shells for now, and you can give me the recipe for the shells later?”
“Va bene.” Sorella Agata nodded her head as she added sugar to the ricotta. Once she was done sweetening the filling for the cannoli shells, she scooped large spoonfuls of ricotta into a piping bag. Expertly, she filled a cannoli shell.
“Now, you try.” She handed her piping bag over to Claudia. Claudia wasn’t accustomed to chefs letting her actually try to make their recipes, but Sorella Agata encouraged her with every recipe she’d shown her. Claudia was enjoying it immensely, and she was reminded of when she used to cook and bake with her father when she was a child. She needed to get back to cooking more when she returned home instead of working all the time.
They worked side by side, filling dozens of cannoli shells that lined several trays.
Claudia decided to take a chance. Though she didn’t want to pry, she also wanted to get to know Sorella Agata better.
“I’m sorry, Sister, for asking. But I happened to notice you were crying earlier. Is everything all right?”
Sorella Agata paused a moment while filling a shell and looked up at Claudia. Shrugging her shoulders, she lowered her gaze and resumed her work. But after a few seconds, she surprised Claudia by saying, “I was just thinking about Rosalia.”
“What happened to her? I know there is no one here with her name.”
Sorella Agata kept her focus on her piping. Claudia was amazed at what a steady hand she had. But then again, she’d been doing this for so many years.
“So last night I left off with Rosalia’s discovering her family had moved away. Si?”
“Yes, you said Rosalia was determined to find her family. I take it she came back to the convent with Madre Carmela?”
“Naturally. So Rosa—”
“I’m sorry for interrupting, Sister. But I was wondering, shouldn’t Madre Carmela be telling me more about Rosalia since she was so close to her? Or is it too painful for her?”
This time, Sorella Agata stopped filling her cannoli shells and nodded.
“Si, it is painful for Madre Carmela to talk about Rosalia, but also her memory isn’t what it used to be. In addition to her rheumatoid arthritis, she is becoming more and more senile. You must be patient with me for a little while longer, Claudia. I know it hasn’t made sense to you why I am telling you so much about this young woman when you are dying to know more about me. But as I mentioned at the start of our interviews, Rosalia influenced me greatly. Since we have so many shells to fill, I might as well continue with her story now instead of waiting for this evening. If you want to stop filling the shells and go get your notebook, you may do so.”
“No, that’s all right. Like you, I can remember a lot by heart.” Claudia smiled.
Sorella Agata returned her smile before continuing to relay Rosalia’s story.
“So Madre Carmela and L’ispettore Franco brought Rosalia back to the convent that would now become her home . . .”
9
Biancomangiare
MILK PUDDING
November 28, 1955
As Rosalia followed Madre Carmela and L’ispettore Franco back to the car, she kept glancing up at her house, trying to sear its image in her head. She must not forget how it looked. With each step she took toward the car, her spirits sank further. Her resolve from a few moments earlier to find her family was faltering as insecurity and grief took hold of her heart.
As L’ispettore Franco’s car made its way through the village of Terme Vigliatore, no one said a word. Madre Carmela and L’ispettore Franco knew what a crushing blow it had been for Rosalia to discover her family was gone and, worse yet, that the family possibly believed she had gone willingly with Marco. The trip that had started out with so much anticipation and elation had now become a somber one.
Rosalia kept her eyes focused outside her passenger window, which was lowered halfway. Though it was a cool, breezy day in November, she didn’t care. For she was already shivering, but not from the cold. Never had she felt so alone—not even when she was Marco’s prisoner in the cave.
As she’d done with the image of her house, Rosalia tried to freeze the landmarks of her town in her mind. Suddenly, memories came rushing back with each of the sites they passed: her school, where she and Luca had spent many days laughing and running in the playground; the bread shop where she had often stopped after working in the tailor shop to bring a loaf of bread home for the family’s midday meal; the produce stall where she and her mother had shopped side by side, comparing the fruits and vegetables; the church where they had gathered every Sunday morning to pray as a family. She noticed as she stared at the church a bride getting out of a car. Her father helped her up the steps to the church. Once they reached the top, the father’s and daughter’s eyes met. He was beaming, pride eviden
t across his features. He leaned over and kissed his daughter on the cheek before they linked their arms together and made their way into the church.
Rosalia would never have that moment with her father. Even if she did learn to trust another man again and agree to marry him, she couldn’t help but feel as though her father—her entire family—was lost to her forever.
And with that thought, she let the tears flow freely from her eyes, not bothering to wipe them even though Madre Carmela pressed her handkerchief into Rosalia’s hand. She felt numb, much like she had those weeks after the nuns had found her at the cave. Though her body had then been severely battered and malnourished, this felt much worse. Without her family, she felt cold. Marco might as well have killed her in that cave. For she wished she were dead now.
L’ispettore Franco’s car drove into the courtyard of the Convento di Santa Lucia del Mela. Before leaving Rosalia’s family’s home, Madre Carmela had asked Signora Tucci if she could use her phone to call the convent and alert them that she and Rosalia would be returning. She didn’t want Rosalia to be bombarded with questions as to why she had not stayed in her hometown. Madre Carmela grew sadder as she watched the life slip out of Rosalia. Guilt also weighed heavily on her mind when she remembered how secretly a part of her wished she would not be losing Rosalia when she returned to her family. She turned her head away lest Rosalia see the tears sliding down her face.
She’d never forget how pained Rosalia’s voice had sounded when she had asked her, “Where will I go now? I have no home or other family to stay with.”
Rosalia’s parents had both been only children, so there were no aunts, uncles, or cousins. And the grandparents had all died.
Madre Carmela had not hesitated and immediately replied, “You will come back to the convent with me, Rosalia.”
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