by Rita Siligato
“Redenta! Have you set the table already?”
Mama was terrible, as far as the religious holidays were concerned.
She wasn’t a practicing Catholic: she went to church at Christmas and Easter only, wearing on her white hair the black veil she received as a gift from her daughters.
But even if she was not a true believer, she believed in eating. Eating was a proper activity for a religious holiday, and therefore it had to be done properly.
At Christmas you must begin with the starters: salami, cheese chunks, olives, assorted pickles, and bologna. Everything was displayed on a large metal platter, together with the toothpicks required for skewering them in the right and only way, following a running olive or a pickled onion that had slipped outside the shiny surface of the tray. And a basket of bread slices was sitting right in the center of the table.
After that came the lasagna, dripping with meat sauce and cheese. Mama did not believe in bechamel sauce, and she eventually converted to it many years later, when Redenta took the lead in the kitchen.
And now you had to have something light, a cup of chicken broth, served in the lovely two handled cups that came to life only at Christmas.
And because she always thought everyone was still hungry, there was another large tray coming, containing breaded chops and fried potato wedges.
Everyone refused to have vegetables, but she had a pot of peas and one of artichokes ready.
For Easter, the ceremony was completely different.
“Redenta! Add the sewing machine to the table at one side! We have…” she counted on her fingers once again, “… we have… the two of us, Ondina with Rudy and the twins, Marina with Guerrino and Giuliana, and that makes nine. Mr Bruno will come with the wife and the kids… and your beau,” she smirked, “of course. You may sit by his side, for a change. And that makes…”
“You can count us out, mama, if you prefer,” said Redenta. “That will make two less.”
She pushed the blonde wooden parallelepiped – the sewing machine – and aligned it with the short side of the table and covered it with a clean white tablecloth. The tiny kitchen was already crowded with all the seats they had in the house.
Mama pretended not to hear.
“That makes nine, plus five, plus one. Fifteen people. We will have to open the windows to let everyone breathe properly!”
Redenta straightened the tablecloths. They didn’t match, but they were both white.
Easter was a mid-morning snack of pinza, ham, hard boiled eggs, and chocolate eggs for the children. You did not have to cook; only to boil the eggs, putting some onion skins in the water to dye them and if you had time and money you could stick some decals on them for the children.
Rudy, who worked as a baker, would bring the pinza, the lovely bishop’s hat shaped sweetbread that is mandatory on an Easter day. And Redenta bought the ham and the chocolate eggs the day before.
“Redenta! Someone’s at the door!”
Mr Bruno was always the first to come, as he was living downstairs. He came bringing some novelties. He was a seafarer now. He came upstairs alone, he said, because the wife and the children were coming a bit later: they went to the mass.
“Beautiful ladies! I have something for you both!”
Rummaging in a large canvas bag he gave them a canister of stick deodorant each, demonstrating how to rub it under the armpits: “It’s all the rage now in the USA! And now…”
He took out of the bag several small boxes with butterflies painted on them.
“Japanese flowers! You have to put them in a glass of water and they revive!”
Mr Bruno was always full of surprises. He was a small, wiry man, with a deep tan and a deeper laughter.
“May I come in?”
Dario was there, at the door. Redenta sat down at the table, patting the seat beside her: “Come here, Dario. Today is an Easter egg full of surprises.”
