In Santa Fiora, where I have been the Priest for more than 30 years, pasta making is part of our daily life, so much so that where are no less than three pasta makers – a most unusual thing for so small a community. There is Sig Antonio in via Cavour, Sig Bartolo in piazza Garibaldi, and Sig Caravaggio in via 22 Settembre. We even celebrate the pasta year with a special feast at my church on the morning of Geronimo’s day.
The church is next to the Priest’s house, which I share with Sister Eustacia, and between the church and the house is a courtyard which is ideal for the feast.
Dear Sister Eustacia gets Topolino – that’s what we call our huge cookpot – out of storage, gives it a good wash and set it up plum in the middle of the courtyard. It hangs on a sturdy tripod over a special gas ring made for it by Sig Grapelli, the ironmonger. Sig Grapelli also made the sieve with three fine handles, which fits inside and can be lifted out by three people. Marble slabs come out of storage and Sister and I heave them onto the trestles. It’s a wonder we can still manage, but we pride ourselves in doing all this part of the work without help. Finally we position Magdalena, the large earthernware dish, ready to receive the pasta dough.
At midday the children and young people begin to arrive, some singly, some with their parents, but mostly in groups. The rowdiest are, I’m sorry to say, from our own school, Sta Fiora. Then there’s the lot from St. Giorgio’s, two hills away, too well-behaved, if you ask me, but the school master is a bit of a tyrant, though I shouldn’t say so. Children come from at least six schools and I’ve stopped checking they they’ve all arrived, because they always have.
I sometimes worry that the older children may stop coming because they don’t think it fashionable. Fashion seems a stronger element in the lives of our teenagers than religion, I’m sorry to say. At the moment, everyone has to be dressed in black, so you would think all these kids were arriving for a funeral. Having said that, I can see a young man over there dressed in jeans and a grey shirt. He must be the son of those people who just bought Enzo’s olive fields. Anyway, it seems as good a turnout as ever, so let’s get going.
Sig Antonio has just rolled up, pulling his own special cart which contains everything he’ll need. Children sometimes laugh at him, but he doesn’t mind at all; he just laughs back. And there is Sig Bartolo in his car. That ample lady driving is his wife. She won’t get out of the car so we all go over and help unload. Last to arrive is Sig Caravaggio. He’s come on foot and his assistant will arrive any minute in a smart van, bearing Sig Caravaggio’s name on the side. I think he’s rather proud of it and I’m not really surprised.
As you can imagine, there is a certain amount of competition between the three pasta makers, but mostly it’s quite good natured. I insist that they all put their dough into Magdalena together. You can see them eyeing each other’s contribution to make sure the special brilliance of their own is not diminished.
Sister Eustacia has got Topolino almost to boiling point. The noise in the courtyard sounds more like a football crowd, but as I raise my hand it drops so suddenly it’s like turning off the television. At Sunday School it takes me forever to get silence. It’s the food of course…
The three pasta barons, as I call them, are stepping forward and each takes a handful of dough in his own particular way: Sig Bartolo scoops it out with a clockwise motion of the left hand. Sig Caravaggio makes a point of using his right hand with an anti-clockwise movement. Sig Antonio pulls a large handful of dough slowly towards him with the same easy motion that he uses to pull one of his five grandchildren onto his lap.
Now, if you have never seen an expert turning a lump of pasta dough into spaghetti, you have really missed something. It’s sheer magic. It’s aerial combat. Look at them now, twisting, kneading, folding, throwing, pulling and punching the poor dough. It’s a dance married to a conjuring trick. It’s street theatre. They are three wizards and the kids are spellbound. So am I.
Like Eastern dervishes they pick up their knives and before you can say Hail Mary! they have cut the dough into a thousand tendrils and laid it all out on the marble slabs. Topolino is boiling fiercely and in goes the first lot, but not before I have stepped forward and thrown in the salt. By long standing tradition I always perform this duty, “adding a little savour to life,” Sister Eustacia kindly and wittily said to me once. The only problem is knowing how much to put in. The pasta barons can’t quite agree, so now they take it in turns year and year about to say how much is to be used. This year it’s Sig Antonio’s turn, which means more salt than in the other years – suits me, but Sig Bartolo and Sig Caravaggio say it’s more than the children like. As nothing is ever left over, I let them disagree.
Topolino comes to the boil again in a very short time and the pasta is ready. The three barons step forward, now in their magnificent tall cylindrical chef’s hats and lift the sieve out of the water. The children have already formed a disorderly queue and Sister Eustacia is serving out the steaming pasta into bowls at a rate you would not think possible. It takes me minutes to separate a little pasta into two bowls when she and I eat together. I sprinkle on the parmesan as fast as I can. There are a few complaints – “Mario has more than I have, Father…..” – but on the whole it all goes smoothly and not a lot ends up on the ground. I say a short grace, laughter and chatter stop, slurping and squeals begin.
This year our pasta barons must have been even more generous than usual – or Sister a little more parsimonious with the portions – as there is enough for seconds. My mind is just beginning to wander back 2000 years, thinking of the feeding of the five thousand, when there’s a loud commotion at the gate. Oh gosh! There is naughty little Raimondo and behind him black-curled Margaretha. It’s St. Anselm’s. How could I not have noticed that they were absent?
Margaretha rushes straight up to me. “Father, Father, there’s lots kept for us, isn’t there? The bus broke down and we’ve walked for miles and miles. I’m starving.”
Silence has almost descended on the other children. I say “almost” because I can hear the chink, chink of cutlery. I know they’re all finishing up every remaining morsel in case someone asks to have it back. I open my mouth to explain but I feel so distressed that no sound comes out. But there in front of me is the young man whom I noticed earlier because he wasn’t dressed like the others.
“Father, if you will let me, I will make another lot of pasta.” Now, I know perfectly well that there isn’t any left and I can see Sig Bartolo smiling sarcastically over the lad’s shoulder. I catch Sig Antonio’s eye and he looks as shocked as I feel, so I must say something. “Yes, my son, that would be very kind.”
“Thank you, and don’t worry, Father, there’s still some dough in the bowl.”
Of course I know there isn’t and Sig Bartolo is laughing out loud now, except that quite suddenly he stops. The lad has scooped something toward him in the bowl, and, yes!, he has lifted out a large lump of beautiful dough. For a moment he holds it up for all to see, and the children from St. Anselm’s are applauding and shouting. I think I’m crying. And he has begun a dance with his hands. The dough changes from one shape to another in the twinkling of an eye and I fancy I see all sorts of wonderful things. Now he picks up Sig Antonio’s knife and in a few seconds it’s all over; there’s a lovely pile of spaghetti on the marble table.
I see Topolino is still boiling. That’s odd because I even reminded Sister Eustacia to turn off the gas when we were finished. But like me she’s getting on in years and a bit forgetful. I can see there’s going to be plenty for St. Anselm’s and I must go and thank that young man and find out who he is. Oh dear me, another commotion at the gate. I see it’s the St. Anselm’s bus driver. He says he’s got the bus going again and is ready to take the children home any time.
Where is that young man? I can’t see anyone in a grey shirt. I must have been speaking out loud because little Raimondo looks up with his mouth full of pasta and says, “I think he’s from the Olive Grove Farm, Father.”
Sig Antonio has just shown me a little piece of dough that missed the cookpot. “Look at this, Father. It’s not our dough. Eggs yellower and flour’s different to the one we use.” Sig Bartolo has also noticed this and wants to make a big song and dance of it all. “We could work it up into a miracle, Father, with some help from you and we’ll all be famous,” he says.
But Sig Antonio speaks for me. “Can you imagine what it would be like with a hundred photographers swarming all over the place? Let’s keep quiet about it.” But I see him wrapping up his pasta knife in a clean cloth and placing it carefully in his cart. I’m sure he’ll keep it very safely. I do so agree with Sig Antonio: we should keep these events in our hearts.
I decided to say a special Mass of thanksgiving this evening. It must be the Autumn sunlight for the church is filled with an unusual radiance, every corner of it, and I feel included.
c David Walser 2001 31/3/01