Chapter Ten
Ten
Lucca Sicula had a different vibe than Sciacca.
We drove away from the water and boats into a landscape of dusty browns and greens. The fishing community gave way to farming, where vast fields grew olives and blood oranges and grapes for wine. The mountains shimmered in the distance. Catena told me Lucca Sicula had a population of about two thousand, and as we drove down a bumpy, poorly maintained road that twisted in sharp angles, I got the sense I was diving further into the past.
Finally, the car stopped. Catena faced me.
“We are here.”
I shivered with a combination of worry and excitement. There was a line of tall homes in a long row close together, painted in Tuscan orange hues with wooden doors. Wrought-iron balconies with colorful flowers overlooked the cobblestone streets. There were no grass or yards, and I blinked in surprise. I’d expected rolling hills with an old-fashioned Tuscan farmhouse, but this reminded me of the grit and close quarters of old city neighborhoods.
Children gathered together, laughing and playing a few feet away, and Catena called something in Italian to them, throwing kisses while they waved back. I wiped my sweaty palms down my tailored black pants. I hadn’t known what to wear, so I fell back on classic New York black—sleek, cool, and comfortable. The sleeveless white silk blouse was light against my skin. I’d panicked when I saw Catena’s jeans, but she told me I looked perfect for the occasion, so I relaxed and trusted her.
We paused before the door and I took a ragged breath. Catena met my gaze and nodded with support, then rapped out a quick knock.
The door immediately opened.
She led me over the threshold, and I saw a line of family behind a woman who looked similar to Mom. Catena hugged her, speaking quickly in Italian, then switching back to English. “Mamma, this is cousin Aurora. Aurora, this is your aunt Philomena.”
I stared in shock at my aunt’s face, greedily devouring the familiar features I missed so much. Her dark hair was threaded with gray and cut shorter than my mom’s but had the same thick texture. Olive skin set off wide chocolate brown eyes with full lashes. But it was the dominant nose, sloping jaw, and heavy winged brows that were reminiscent to me. She was the same, yet different. Her body was shorter, more stocky than curvy around the hips and belly. The simple blue dress had pockets and was both practical and tidy.
I blinked and hesitated, not sure what to do as dozens of stares centered on me, the newcomer, and for one wild moment, I wanted to turn and run away.
“Aurora. My beautiful niece.” Her voice broke, and then she was weeping, gathering me gently into her arms as if I were the most fragile thing she’d ever handled. She smelled of citrus and warm baked bread, and I fought my own tears as I hugged her back, reminding myself over and over that this was my aunt, who’d grown up with Mom.
The embrace broke the spell, and then I was surrounded, squeezed in by one relative after another who introduced themselves, hugging and touching me, talking loudly in Italian while I tried to respond as my head whipped back and forth. I spotted Theo in the throng; he waved, and then Teresa was flanking Catena as they pulled me forward.
“Give her room, Mamma!” Catena said with a laugh. “You will scare her away.”
My aunt refused to let go of my hand as she introduced me to her husband, Alessandro, then accompanied me over to a man who looked exactly like Emilio. Light hair receded from his high forehead. Bluish eyes stared back at me. A trimmed gray mustache gave him a distinguished air. A blue collared polo was neatly open at the neck, paired with navy blue pants, creased smartly down the middle. He wrung his hands together as if he were just as nervous as I was. “I am your uncle Agosto,” he said in a heavily accented voice. “I was Serafina’s brother.” Grief reflected on his slightly wrinkled face. “Welcome to the family, mia nipote . We are all mourning the loss of your mother.”
I cleared away the lump in my throat. “ Grazie. It’s nice to meet you.”
He reached out and took my hands, gripping them. My chest tightened and I was finding it hard to breathe. Okay, this was a lot. My mind spun with a million thoughts, yet everyone was still speaking around me. My skin began to itch, and I prayed I wouldn’t begin breaking out in hives. God, I should have scheduled a session with Dr. Sariah before this big meeting. What was I thinking?
His gaze roved over me in wonder. “You look like your mamma . So beautiful.”
I bit my lip hard and tried not to lose it. “ Grazie ,” I said again, feeling tongue-tied and lost.
“This is my wife—your aunt Lucy.” I smiled at the petite woman standing next to my uncle. She had delicate, birdlike features and kind brown eyes.
“We are so happy to finally have you here,” my aunt said.
Emilio pushed his way over and patted my shoulder. “Would you like a glass of wine?” he whispered.
Overwhelmed by the number of people I was meeting, I shot him a grateful glance. “Yes.”
“Be right back. Papà, Mamma, this is a lot for her, too.”
Uncle Agosto snatched his hands back like he’d done something wrong. Aunt Lucy pressed her lips together. He said something in Italian, as if in apology, but I shook my head and spoke up. “No, it’s okay. I’m happy to be here. Happy to meet my mother’s family.”
He relaxed and smiled back, and that’s when I caught a hint of the mischief he’d normally exude, just like Emilio. I was grateful I’d met my four cousins earlier; just like they’d promised, they were helping me navigate this reunion.
A glass of wine was pressed into my hand and I sipped the liquid courage. I had a quick overall impression of my grandparents’ house of simplicity, cleanliness, and warmth. The scents of cooking and lemon polish drifted in the air. The roar of window air conditioners was a steady hum amid conversations. Lots of dark wood was set off with colorful accents, such as mosaic figurines, photographs, and floral tapestry pillows. A large couch and multiple chairs in earth tones made up the main living area, with a small television and heavily carved tables. Sheer lace curtains covered the windows. An arched doorway opened to the kitchen, where I spotted many women gathered around in aprons, shuffling things from the stove to the countertops as they chattered with one another. Bottles of wine competed with hunks of bread, oils, lemons, and bulbs of garlic. Dishes of olives and cheese with cured meats were displayed on the dining table, which seemed to have two large leaves with chairs squeezed in tight next to one another. It struck me as a home filled with family and cooking and busyness, but I couldn’t picture my mother being a part of it. In my mind, she belonged only to me, alone in the kitchen as she cooked for the two of us. Humming and drinking red wine, music in the background, hair pinned up as she served us with a joy I’d never understood.
I shook my head to clear away the images. Uncle Agosto shared a glance with Aunt Philomena, then smiled at me. “Come. You must meet your nonna and babba .”
The strange endearments seemed too intimate, but I held my tongue as I was led through a group of aunts and uncles hovering nearby. My heart pounded hard against my chest as we closed the distance and a clear path was made for us, as if I were about to meet the queen and king. The back of my neck prickled and I gave a quick scratch, hoping my face didn’t look red or broken out.
And then we were finally face-to-face.
These were my grandparents.
The three of us stared at one another. My grandmother’s eyes were swollen and red-rimmed behind her clear-framed glasses, as if she had been crying all night. A broken gasp fell from her lips as her gaze roved over me, and she launched into a litany of Italian that I didn’t understand, except for one perfect, precious word.
Serafina.
She called out my mother’s name like it was something sacred, her wrinkled hands clasped together like she was praying. Her curly gray hair was cut short, and her face was a beautiful map of soft creases that bespoke a life well lived. Dark eyes clung to mine under familiar arching brows. Like Philomena, she resembled my mother, as I’d imagined she would have looked if she’d grown old the way she was supposed to. A green apron covered with lemons cinched her waist.
Aunt Philomena gripped my arm in support and responded to my grandmother in Italian, then spoke to me. “Aurora, this is your nonna , Rosa. And your babba , Giovanni.”
A shattering silence fell between us. Slowly, my grandmother stepped closer, cupping my cheeks and staring into my face with wonder. Her hands were warm and firm, and in that moment, I experienced a fleeting sensation of complete comfort and care, reminding me of when I was little and would climb into Mom’s arms.
“I did not know about you,” she said, voice shaky. “ Mia bella nipote. I dreamed of you. I missed my Sera every day, and now she is gone.” Ravaged pain shone in her dark eyes. “You are here now. You will make all of this right.”
I blinked furiously, trying not to weep as my past and present crashed together in an emotional wreck. Her arms came around me and I leaned gently into her embrace, allowing myself to tumble straight into my fantasy. I was a lost grandchild now found. Yes, the circumstances were horrible, and I had a zillion questions about why this had happened, but for now, I was here, and it was a moment I’d never forget.
“I miss her so much,” I whispered. “I wish she could be here.”
She whispered my name like a prayer. “Your name. Aurora. That is my middle name. Your mamma bestowed on me a gift.”
Shock pummeled me. I was named after my grandmother but had never known about the connection, the special honor of carrying someone’s legacy. “I didn’t know.”
My grandmother—Nonna—patted my back and murmured in Italian, soothing my ears. When she finally pulled away, she gave me a small smile. “Giovanni, come meet your nipote . Come.”
She pulled him forward and I noticed his reluctance, his guarded stare as he took me in. My grandfather was short and stocky, with big hands and a rough exterior. A frown creased his wrinkled forehead. Thick black-framed glasses perched on his wide, flat nose. Silver hair was slicked back neatly. He was dressed nicely in a collared shirt and pants and sensible loafers. Hazel eyes appraised me with a firm distance, and he immediately struck me as removed from the emotional scene my grandmother and I had just shared.
A flare of doubt hit as I waited for an embrace or a touch, but he only nodded, his voice deep and heavily accented. “ Buongiorno. Good to meet you. Aurora.”
He said my name tentatively, almost like he didn’t believe I was related to him. A barrier separated him from me, and ridiculously, hurt pummeled me. Was he the reason my mother fled? Was he mean and cruel and I hadn’t known? I studied him carefully, nodding back with politeness but refusing to speak. Instinct screamed that he was the missing link in this story, and I didn’t trust him.
Odd—he didn’t seem to trust me, either.
We regarded each other in silent judgment, then I was guided into the kitchen surrounded by my grandmother and aunts and cousins. My brain worked frantically to keep up with the endless list of names and relations, but it didn’t seem to matter, because within minutes, I was perched beside the table with my glass of wine, surrounded by women chopping and cooking a massive meal. Plates and cups clinked and clattered. Laughter filled the air. I was barraged with questions about my mom and dad, about America, about my job and my childhood. I answered all of them, glowing with the attention and being able to share things about my parents. Men drifted in and out to refill drinks but mainly stayed in the living room or stood out on the balcony manning a small grill, from which the rich scent of cooked meat drifted in.
I met my other first cousin, Luigi, who was charming and obviously adored his wife and three daughters, who were outside playing. Uncle Agosto told bad jokes when he tried to interrupt and was shooed out of the kitchen by his own family. Magdalena was my second cousin whose wedding was coming up. Her dreamy, excited expression as she spoke about her fiancé gave me an odd longing. I thought of Jason and wondered how I sounded when I talked about him. Something told me I was more lukewarm. The idea nagged in my gut, but I pushed it aside to talk about her wedding.
“Aurora, please try to come. I would love to have my new cugina there,” she begged. She reminded me of Snow White, with her pale skin, dark eyes, black hair, and red, red lips. Her grandfather was my grandfather’s brother and owned the olive oil farm nearby. I congratulated myself on remembering the connection. I was lost on all the others. Most of the names blurred and ended with a ’s for the women, and the men seemed dressed all alike, with collared shirts and neatly creased pants. Most sported white or gray hair with mustaches. Their deep voices were rough and loud. They reminded me a bit of stepping into a scene from The Godfather .
“I would love to, but I’m only here for ten days. I have a ton of work waiting for me back home. Plus, my boyfriend.”
Immediately, I received everyone’s full attention. Teresa bumped my shoulder, obviously thrilled I’d spilled the tea early and she was in the know. “His name is Jason,” she said loudly. “He owns a gym and does fitness. Sounds like he’s hot.”
“How long have you been together?” Magda asked.
“A year. We have very similar interests.”
“And he’s hot,” Teresa said again.
The girls laughed. Aunt Philomena shook her head as she sliced hunks of bread with rapid ease. “Can you speak to Catena, please? She has not brought anyone home to meet me and she is old. It is time to settle down.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. Catena was a few years younger than me, so I must be a full-fledged spinster. The remark brought a heated response from my cousin, and Teresa jumped in to defend her. “Mamma, things are not the same anymore. We don’t have to get married young. We want careers.”
“She’s working at a bar and partying all night,” my aunt shot back. “It is nonsense. I want grandchildren.”
“Nonna! Tell her she’s being mean,” Catena whined, laying her head against my grandmother’s chest.
I watched as Nonna patted her in comfort and kissed the top of her head. “You are a good girl, but your mamma is impatient. We need more babies.”
Teresa shuddered. “Not me. I like doing what I want.”
One of my other aunts—Maria?—wagged her finger at my cousins. “ Basta con queste sciocchezze! You are almost thirty. Look at Magda—she is twenty-five and married before you. Stop being picky.”
“Do you want to marry Jason?” Magda asked, obviously trying to switch the attention off my cousins’ lack of spouses.
My tongue got stuck to the roof of my mouth. I thought over our last face-to-face conversation, when he told me he loved me, then left. I thought about how excited I was about our future and what a perfect fit he was for my lifestyle. What was love, really? A choice. Once lust and adrenaline faded, the stuff left was the sticking parts. Respect. Common goals. Shared interests. Jason basically hit all the marks.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly, surprised in the moment at my response.
My grandmother turned from the stove, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Did your mother meet him?” she asked softly.
I gritted my teeth as pain stabbed me. “Yes, she did.” I didn’t want to tell them Mom disapproved but refused to tell me why. Or share that one of our final times together dissolved into a fight while I challenged her on the reason she didn’t like Jason. Or my behavior and obsession with my career.
I guess I looked sad, because Aunt Philomena patted my hand, and Catena refilled my wineglass, and then we were heading to the table for dinner.
My cousins pushed me into a chair, flanking me, and my elbows were squeezed close to my sides from the other seats jammed in tight. I noticed a separate, smaller table for all the children set up in the living room. My grandmother and aunts began bringing in dishes, filled with what looked like an array of vegetables in a sauce. I immediately perked up, relieved I was able to eat everything offered.
“Caponata,” Teresa whispered to me, thanking my aunt as she placed a full bowl in front of both of us. I watched as each person was individually served by the women, and how my grandmother barked orders at everyone, nodding and directing as if they were performing an intricate dance routine. My grandfather sat at the head of the table as if lording over his servants. It was a bit disturbing.
“I feel bad not helping,” I said, beginning to push my chair back to get out of my seat.
“No!” Catena practically shouted from my other side. “You are our special guest; they will not let you do work today. And I don’t want to, either, so let’s just keep sitting.”
I chuckled at my cousin, then caught Aunt Philomena’s shake of the head. Yeah, she’d heard that comment, too, but seemed amused by her daughter’s remark. A memory sparked of how my mother used to serve my dad, and the way I’d rolled my eyes, teasing her that women didn’t have to be subservient to men any longer. I hadn’t listened when she explained cooking for the people you loved was an honor. Regret throbbed like a wound. Now it was too late to apologize. Watching the prideful faces on my aunts and grandmother gave me a new impression.
The bread came out piping hot, with sesame seeds sprinkled on the crust. My fingers curled in to avoid taking a piece. Some came out with what looked like a piece of dried meat on top, which I didn’t recognize. I decided to skip that, too.
Finally, after much fussing, everyone took their places and they said grace, bowing their heads as they prayed. When I looked up, I found my grandfather staring at me, but he quickly looked away as soon as I noticed.
Tension tightened in my stomach. I decided to avoid him as much as possible. Until I knew the circumstances regarding Mom’s disappearance, I had no desire to converse.
The caponata was fried eggplant mixed with other vegetables, olives, and capers, creating a delicious salty flavor that danced on my taste buds. Most scooped it onto the bread and made a mini open sandwich of the treat, and I enjoyed each morsel. “Try the bottarga,” Teresa suggested. “It’s crostini with dried fish and lemon.”
Luigi passed me one, and I took a bite of the top with just the edge of the bread. God, that was unexpectedly good. The acidity and some other unique spice were rich and bold. I took another sip of my wine and relaxed. I liked this dinner. It was going well.
Suddenly, all the women got up from the table and began clearing. I knew it couldn’t be over, so I figured we’d have another dish, then dessert. My grandmother patted my shoulder as she walked past, and I heard the roars of laughter from the children’s table. Luigi’s wife seemed to be the other table’s director, because she’d admonish, shake her head, serve, and chuckle along with their antics. My grandfather had given up on staring at me and was talking with the uncles, their voices gruff as they argued about something I couldn’t understand. Their voices got louder and I winced, waiting for the explosion, but my cousins just talked louder, and I remembered what Quint had told me about Italians yelling, so I relaxed.
New dishes were served and I glanced around for the explanation.
This time, Magdalena spoke. “ Involtini di pesce spada. It’s swordfish.”
I perked up. I was thriving during this dinner! With enthusiasm, I forked the rolled-up fish, which was seasoned with breadcrumbs and some nuts. The rich, buttery flavor was moan-worthy, and I wondered why Mom had never made us anything like this. The fish was flaky and fresh. A beautiful salad was placed on the table, along with a plate of shrimp that had the shells on. Dad called them prawns, and these were gigantic and a bold red color.
I drizzled some lemon and peeled off the shells, sinking my teeth into the firm flesh. Succulent, with the distant flavor of salt from the sea. I realized how different things were when they were freshly caught or passed through a minimal number of distributors. I’d tasted fruit from the farm markets in the Hudson Valley, and no supermarkets compared. Sicilian food, so far, was quite delicious.
I enjoyed the overlapping conversations around the table, greedily ingesting the way everyone related in such a loving way. I talked about New York and my job to my aunts and cousins and answered a ton of questions. When the women got up again, I smiled.
“Dessert now?”
Catena had termed this meal dinner, but it was only two p.m. and no one seemed in a rush to move.
My cousins laughed. “No, third course,” Teresa said.
Third course?
“ Anelletti al forno , my favorite!” Emilio said as the large casserole dish was set down. Immediately, Aunt Philomena began to cut and serve, while my grandmother brought in more bread.
My luck had run out.
I was about to eat carbs.
And I was already full.
Pinning on a smile, I accepted the bursting plate of cheese, meat, and pasta oozing over my dish. Someone put bread on my plate. I forked up a small bite and popped it in my mouth.
Oh. My. God.
I’d never eaten anything like it. The melty cheese accented the firm ring-shaped pasta, and pieces of ham and—pork? veal maybe?—gave it a layered richness that made a sound of pleasure escape my lips. I had no idea what else was in it, but besides being the most calories I’d ingested in a few bites, it was also the most memorable.
Jason would die here.
My grandmother gave out seconds, dipping in and out of speaking Italian. I heard the word “ BASTA! ” from one of my second cousins, and my grandmother glared a bit, then sat down. I wondered what bad thing my cousin had said. I made a mental note to look it up and never say it.
Magda launched into talk about her upcoming wedding while the table was cleared. More wine was poured. I stuck to sparkling water and slumped a bit in my chair. No way was I eating dessert.
Until I realized dinner wasn’t over.
A platter with a beautiful roasted chicken came out to the oohs and aahs of everyone. Other dishes were set around, and I found my eyes widening in denial that any one person could eat this much and live.
I guess, in Sicily, they not only lived but flourished.
Catena pointed to the various plates. “Potato croquettes, chicken, escarole. Buon appetito! ”
Carbs after carbs? Pasta with potatoes and bread?
As if he’d caught my thoughts, my grandfather swung his head around to rest his narrowed gaze on me. It flicked to my face, to my plate, and back. A frown creased his wrinkled brow.
My heart began to pound harder. I couldn’t offend anyone, especially him. I’d just…eat it.
And I did. I wondered over the juicy texture and flavor of the chicken, so light and citrusy, with the scents of rosemary and herbs. The potatoes were encrusted in a fried dough and creamy in the hot center. The bitter taste of the escarole leaves was balanced with lemon and capers, rounding out the rest of the dishes. I finished my plate, my one small act of rebellion staring me in the face.
My bread remained untouched.
“Do you like everything?” my grandmother asked, eyes flashing with worry as she analyzed my mostly empty plate. “More?”
“No, thank you! I love every single thing I tasted. Mom never—” I broke off, biting my lip, as if I’d said something wrong.
A short silence fell over the table. My cheeks burned.
“She did not cook like this?” my grandmother asked, voice laced with pain.
“No. She loved to make pasta with eggplant in various ways. She made her own bread, too. And her favorite cake to make was torta setteveli . Dad loved it.”
My grandmother gasped. “I taught her to bake that dessert for special occasions.”
Murmurs of sympathy rose to my ears. I bit my lip hard. Imagining Mom had baked that cake with her mother, learning every careful step, probably complaining or fighting in the kitchen with my grandmother made my heart squeeze tight. I remembered visiting and watching her in the kitchen, smells of dough and salt permeating the air, her apron tight around her waist as her graceful hands pulled sheets of pasta from the maker. I remembered touting my new diet, which consisted of vegetables and no carbs. I remembered her face falling as she tried to create special things just for me in an obvious need to bond with her only daughter.
Shame burned through me. I’d treated her as disposable, uneducated as to how to be truly healthy. I’d gossiped with Jason about how hard it was to eat at my mother’s house and keep true to myself, while he agreed enthusiastically and doubled up on our shared workouts.
My grandmother pressed her hands together. “I taught her many dishes before she left, but she was always sneaking away from the kitchen. To run around with the boys and explore and get messy.”
My eyes widened at this important information. “She was? She was…wild?”
Aunt Philomena laughed. “Ah, your mamma always knew how to sweet-talk me into doing her work. She loved to run and play. Remember, Papà, how she used to beg to go to work with you in the fields? She could get lost for hours daydreaming or reading or dancing. Piena di vita. ” My aunt shook her hands. “She was full of life.”
I couldn’t relate that image to the mom I’d known, so practical and nurturing, as if her entire existence had been built on having a family and she’d been disappointed to have only one child. But there were other images in my memory, buried deep, that suddenly sprang loose.
Mom reading late at night, worn covers and towering spines of books stacked on the shelves and tables.
Mom staring out the window, lost in another world, not hearing me call her name over and over. The distance in her face, the sadness in her gaze as she blinked, clearing it away before refocusing on me.
Mom dancing with Dad in the kitchen late at night, caught up in their own world as I stared at them with a longing I couldn’t understand, as if I craved to be part of a secret club only they knew about.
The sound of Mom weeping through a closed door as my father quietly spoke in a soothing voice. Overhearing his comment, “You need to stop torturing yourself and let it go, my love.” I hadn’t understood, so I’d shrugged off the incident. Now I wondered if it was the past rearing up, the past she’d kept a secret from everyone, including her only daughter.
“You have not had any bread.”
I startled; my gaze flew to my grandfather. He pointed at my plate and the large chunk left uneaten. A strange tension floated in the air. “ Scusi? ” I said, tilting my head.
Disapproval gleamed in his hazel eyes. He pushed his glasses up his nose in an annoyed manner. “You do not like the bread?”
I caught my breath as everyone stared at me. My grandmother seemed worried, as if I’d deemed her food unworthy. “N-n-no, I love the bread. I’m just very full.”
“Babba, leave her alone. She’s not used to eating so much in the States. Carbs are bad,” Catena said, defending me.
A thundercloud passed over my grandfather’s face. “ Il pane è la vita! ” he boomed out.
Now my grandmother looked distressed. Aunt Philomena sighed. “Papà, don’t scare her. Let her eat what she wants.”
Suddenly, the chair scraped back and my grandfather got up from the table. With a loud humph, he disappeared, leaving me shocked and embarrassed, with my jaw hanging open. He was a very mean man. I immediately didn’t like him trying to bully me or make me feel bad. Was this how he’d treated my mother? No wonder she left!
The tension on the women’s faces disturbed me, though, so I did the only thing left to keep the peace.
I grabbed the bread, and I ate it.
I caught Emilio’s grin, the girls’ supportive nods, and Aunt Philomena’s relief. My grandmother watched me polish off every crumb with such pride, I decided it was worth the calories and compromise to please her.
My grandfather came back. He took in my empty plate and didn’t comment. I burned with resentment as he conversed with my uncles again, ignoring my attempt to make him happy. He didn’t like me, and I had no idea why. I just needed to get to the truth about my mom, and hopefully I wouldn’t see him again. I’d keep close with my cousins and my grandmother and Aunt Philomena. It was enough.
The final clearing occurred, to my relief. Espresso brewed. Tiny cups of lemon ices were brought out—dubbed granita al limone —which reminded me of sorbet. Pieces of bitter chocolate were laid out with almonds. A beautiful multilayered sponge cake was served—filled with creamy ricotta. The flavor was sweet with honey and citrus, and the dessert was decorated with dried candied fruits in various shapes. All the months of avoiding sugar crashed into this one perfect moment. The grainy bite of the chocolate, the tartness of the lemon ice, the sugary cream of the cake, the bitter burning sip of espresso—all the culinary tastes and textures culminated in pure delight.
I closed my eyes and let myself soar.
“What in God’s name is this cake called?” I whispered to Catena.
She grinned. “Cassata. Nonna’s recipe is the best around—better than the pastry shops.”
Food was religion here. It was a lesson I’d never forget.
Eventually, we all got up from the table. I helped clear, overpowering the aunts who tried to wave me away, and a coordinated cleanup crew took over. For such a small kitchen, everyone seemed to have their job and knew their place within the cramped space. The men stayed at the table and talked. Some ventured out to smoke a cigar. Family members began to leave with their kids, saying goodbye to me with warm hugs and invitations for dinner, many saying they’d see me for church Sunday morning.
Finally, everyone had left except Aunt Philomena, Uncle Agosto, their spouses and children, and my grandparents.
I sank into the sofa, perched on the edge, my knees and hands pressed together to calm my nerves. My grandfather drifted in and took his place in the main leather chair, facing me. My aunt was on one side, my cousin on another. My grandmother was the last to settle in, next to my grandfather. Without a speech planned, or specific questions to ask, we stared at one another in uneasy silence, as if no one knew where to start.
I was surprised when the words popped out of my mouth.
“Tell me what happened with my mother. I want to know everything.”