November 10, 2004
Claudia was standing outside the convent’s kitchen, waiting for Sorella Agata to stop crying. She had become accustomed to catching the mother superior crying; it had happened several times in the month and a half since Claudia had arrived. And every time, it had been when Sorella Agata was whipping up one of her creations. Except for the first time, when Claudia had witnessed Sorella Agata crying while she was making her cannoli filling, Claudia had refrained from asking her why she was crying. She wasn’t even convinced that the real reason for Sorella Agata’s crying was the one she had given while she was making cannoli: because of Rosalia. Claudia had never been one to rely on intuition, but it was telling her now there was more to Sorella Agata’s tears. Then again, Claudia had almost cried several times upon hearing all that poor Rosalia had gone through.
Claudia was beginning to get impatient. While she couldn’t deny that Rosalia’s story was intriguing, and she was beginning to see how the young woman’s natural talent for baking would’ve inspired Sorella Agata, Claudia’s stay here in Sicily would be over soon, and the mother superior still had not gotten to her part of the story. Whenever Claudia had tried to steer the conversation toward Sorella Agata’s life, the nun would hold up her hand and say in Italian, “Pazienza! Patience!” She said it in a stern voice, which caused Claudia to heed the sister’s wishes immediately.
The fragrance of sweet tangerines reached Claudia’s nose. She saw Sorella Agata squeeze a tangerine into what looked like a cake batter. Immediately, Claudia’s mouth watered. She’d never had a cake made out of tangerines. Orange, yes. She and her father had made both orange and lemon cakes throughout her childhood. Why hadn’t either of them ever thought about making a cake out of tangerines? It was brilliant. For tangerines were even sweeter than oranges.
“Ah! Claudia!”
Sorella Agata stopped what she was doing and quickly patted her face with a kitchen towel, making sure to turn her back toward Claudia.
“I’m getting warm with the ovens turned on.” She took off her apron and fanned her face with it. Claudia was surprised at the nun’s small lie.
“Those tangerines smell wonderful, Sorella Agata. I take it you’re making a cake?”
“Si. Torta al Mandarino. This is the second most popular cake we sell at the shop after my famous cassata cake. It’s very sweet, but most of the flavor comes from the ripest, juiciest tangerines in season and not from too much sugar.”
Sorella Agata returned to squeezing the last of her tangerines. Then she stirred the batter. Her brows were knitted furiously in thought. At first, Claudia thought she was concentrating on her mixing, but then she saw her eyes fill with tears again. She batted her eyelashes, but one tear managed to slide down her face into the cake’s batter.
Claudia pulled a paper towel off one of the dispensers that were scattered throughout the kitchen. She glanced toward the other workers, but no one seemed to notice that Sorella Agata was crying. She handed the paper towel to Sorella Agata.
“Ah. Grazie, Claudia. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me.” She dabbed at her tears before adding, “Just a foolish old woman.”
“You’re not that old, Sister!”
“I’m getting there.” She laughed.
“I don’t mean to pry, Sorella Agata, but I must admit I have seen you cry several times, whenever you’re alone baking. It seems as if something is weighing heavily on your mind. Sometimes it helps to talk, so if you want to unburden yourself, I’m here. I promise I wouldn’t put anything confidential in our book.”
Sorella Agata smiled and then patted Claudia’s hand.
“You are so sweet, Claudia. Grazie. Nothing is weighing on my mind. I suppose it’s all this talk of the past that has gotten to me. That’s all.”
Claudia nodded. “Rosalia’s story is sad to hear. When I went to bed last night, I found myself tearing up, thinking about how she let Antonio go. I know you ended at that point last night, but I’m hoping you’ll tell me she really didn’t leave him. He sounded wonderful. Lord knows it’s hard to find a good man like that nowadays.”
“Eh. That is what I hear, but what would I know, being a woman of God?” Sorella Agata shrugged her shoulders, then looked at Claudia. They broke out into laughter.
“I needed that. So there isn’t a handsome young man waiting for you back home in New York, Claudia? With your beauty, I would think you would have several admirers.”
Claudia blushed slightly. “I’m afraid to say I don’t date much. My focus has been on my career these past few years. I date here and there, but nothing serious.”
“Do you want to get married and have children?”
“Yes. Someday. For the moment, I’m content burying myself in writing my books and tasting extraordinary food from chefs like yourself.”
“I’m glad you have enjoyed our pastries.”
“They are without question the best I’ve ever tasted. I have to say even a few of the pastries that I’ve had before, like the cannoli and several of the biscotti, surpass what I’ve had when I’ve tried them from Italian bakeries in New York or the shops in Messina. It’s not just your cassata that stands apart. I’m surprised no one else has noticed or commented on that.”
“A few of the other nuns and our customers have said there is something unique about many of our pastries.” Sorella Agata looked thoughtful as she said this.
“But none of the chefs or food critics who have visited and sampled your other sweets commented on them?”
“No. They were mainly interested in the cassata because they’d heard so much about it. But again, Claudia, I follow my recipes, which have been passed down from nuns throughout the centuries. You’ve watched me as I’ve made the pastries that will appear in our book, and you’ve reviewed my recipe book. So you know I am not hiding anything.”
Claudia wanted to say that while she had watched Sorella Agata make her pastries, she had yet to watch her make the cassata. The Minni della Vergine, the miniature cassatas she had sampled, had been made by the other workers. Claudia was always sure to ask them who had made the miniature cassatas that day. She couldn’t help wondering how much better Sorella Agata’s Minni della Vergine were, since the cassatas she had tasted that were baked by the pastry shop’s other workers were phenomenal. But it was as if Sorella Agata didn’t want Claudia to taste her miniature cassatas.
Deciding to bite her tongue and wait to bring it up at a later date when she would finally be able to watch Sorella Agata make her famous cassata, Claudia merely said, “Yes, it doesn’t appear as if you’re hiding anything. Perhaps it’s this place. There’s some sort of magic in the air.” She smiled, winking at Sorella Agata. But the nun didn’t seem amused or realize that she was only joking. Instead, she looked very tired.
“We could take a break today, Sister. Why don’t we just focus on the last of the recipes that will be featured in the book? You can resume Rosalia’s story tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m afraid that was the end of the story last night. At least, Rosalia’s story.”
“What? How can that be? You still haven’t reached the part of the story telling how she was your greatest influence when it came to your pastry making. Did she marry Antonio? Did he stay in Sicily as he promised he would if she married him?”
Sorella Agata took a deep breath, but didn’t answer Claudia. She poured the tangerine cake batter into an eight-inch cake pan, tapped it a few times on the counter to ensure it was even, and then walked over to the oven. After placing the pan in the oven, she looked up at the clock that hung high on the wall, near the ceiling. Claudia was still amazed that she never used a timer and always managed to remember when it was time to check on her baking. In the weeks since Claudia had arrived, she’d never once witnessed the mother superior burning anything.
“Let’s get some espresso and go into the sitting room. We can talk more in there since it looks like we’re going to get rain soon, so I’d rather not sit out in the courtyard.”
>
“That would be nice.”
Claudia helped Sorella Agata pour the espresso into two cups, and they each took a slice of plain sponge cake as well. They always had the sponge cake on a few biscotti with their espresso. Claudia’s clothes were getting tight, and she knew she’d have to step up her workout routine once she got home. She’d hardly exercised here besides going for long walks and treating herself once to a swim at the local beach. But for some reason, she wasn’t fretting as she would’ve done back home. The convent’s serenity and the beautiful Sicilian landscape had done wonders in calming her nervous nature. She knew sadly though that once she returned to New York City, her stressful routine would resume.
Following Sorella Agata into the convent’s sitting room, Claudia took a seat in the armchair opposite a small settee, where Sorella Agata sat.
“I must thank you, Claudia, for bearing with me. I know it hasn’t been easy for you, listening to my long story about Rosalia.”
“That’s all right, Sister.”
“So let’s see. We left off in the summer of 1956. Six years later, Rosalia did get married, but not to Antonio. . . .”
23
Olivette di Sant’ Agata
SAINT AGATHA’S LITTLE OLIVES
May 20, 1962
Cathedral Church of Santa Lucia del Mela
Rosalia adjusted her veil as she stood at the altar. The pins used to hold her veil in place were digging into her scalp. She was nervous, but it was a different kind of nervous. Though today would be the last day of the life she had known, it would also be the start of a new life. The woman she had known all these years would now become someone else: Sorella Agata.
Today, Rosalia would take her vows to become a bride of Christ. These last four years, the time it took for her to complete her training to become a nun, had been filled with deep introspection and reflection. She had not entered into this decision lightly. Two years after Antonio had left, she had received God’s calling to become a nun, and since then, she’d had no reservations that this was her destined path. After her failed relationship with Antonio, she had no desire to fall in love again, and she had grown to love living at the convent, bonding with the women there, and learning how to make the finest pastries.
As she stood with the other novitiates from the entire city of Santa Lucia del Mela, waiting to take their vows, her thoughts turned to Antonio. If she had remained engaged to him, she would have been standing at this altar in a long lace dress, committing herself to him rather than to God. Once again, life had surprised her—although this time she had been the one to decide what course it would follow. She had chosen not to stay with Antonio, just as she had chosen to become a novitiate and devote herself fully to God and His work. She wondered what Antonio would think if he knew that she had decided to become a nun. He would be shocked, yes, just like Madre Carmela, Anunziata, Mari, and almost everyone else at the convent had been when she’d shared with them her intentions. The only one who hadn’t been shocked was Elisabetta.
Surprisingly, Elisabetta had taken the place of Teresa and become Rosalia’s good friend. Rosalia had confided in Elisabetta when she first began to consider the idea of becoming a nun. Rosalia knew that Elisabetta would not judge since she, too, was planning on taking vows. Naturally, Elisabetta had been upset when she learned that Teresa and Francesco had eloped, and she had refused to see her sister when she came by to visit after her nuptials. It took Elisabetta a few months to finally write back to Teresa, and it had been too late. Teresa had stopped writing to Elisabetta. Rosalia had convinced Elisabetta to go visit Teresa, but when she and Elisabetta went to the small house that the newlyweds had been renting from a widow, they were informed the couple had moved. Rosalia was hurt that Teresa had also stopped keeping in touch with her and that she could so easily discard their friendship as well as her relationship with her sister. Was Francesco’s love all Teresa really needed? This was unlike Rosalia, who had rejected Antonio and chosen to wait in Messina in hopes of her family’s returning.
Though it had been six years since Antonio had moved to Paris, Rosalia’s heart winced when she thought about him. True, she still cared for him, but she did not long for him as she had when they were engaged. Shortly after he left, Antonio had kept his word and written, letting her know his address and phone number. He never pressured or asked Rosalia if she had changed her mind and would be returning to him, but she knew he was still waiting for her. How she had wanted to write him back and tell him she was sorry for what she’d said to him that day in the jasmine field. Though he had told her he knew deep down in her heart she didn’t really think he was like Marco, she should have told him that. But she also knew she couldn’t encourage him. And that was why she never wrote back to him. She had also wanted to tell him how proud she was of him. It was as if Madre Carmela could read Rosalia’s mind whenever she gave her updates about Antonio. On the one hand, it was painful for Rosalia to hear about him, but on the other, she was curious to hear if his dream of becoming a chef was coming true. But eventually, Antonio stopped writing altogether. A little more than a year after his leaving Sicily, Antonio’s letters to Rosalia ceased. Even Madre’s letters grew further apart until she also never heard from him again.
Rosalia’s heart had ached terribly, and to try to forget the pain, she had thrown herself even more into her baking. It wasn’t long before her pastries sold better with the shop’s customers than the same pastries that were made by the other workers. And the questions about her methods began. The other workers couldn’t quite figure out why Rosalia’s pastries tasted better than theirs even though she was following the same recipes they’d been using for years. Rosalia had felt self-conscious, but Madre Carmela had told her not to pay any mind to the other workers and to just continue to do the fine work she was doing in the kitchen.
Antonio. How she had missed him while she made her recipes, missed having him beside her as they shared their friendly rivalry. She had always felt that he’d made her work better. But now she had to just remember his words of encouragement while she created her pastries alone—though she wasn’t truly alone but was surrounded by all the other pastry shop workers. Still. It had been different with Antonio. She prayed for him every day and hoped he was happy. She even prayed that he had found another woman who could do right by him and love him fully. He deserved that after the way she’d hurt him.
“Are you ready, Rosalia?”
Madre Carmela came up to Rosalia and took her hands in her own.
“Si, Madre.”
This would probably be the last time someone would address her by her christened name. Rosalia. She felt a quick flash of sadness since that name naturally reminded her of her past: her past with her family, the tragedies she had endured, and finally the time she’d spent with the only boy she had ever loved and would ever love. She was ready to shed her old life and move forward with her new one. But Rosalia also realized that she needed to honor the woman she once had been, along with all the good and bad that had been a part of her life. She had decided to choose Agata for her new name. Saint Agatha was the patron saint of rape victims, so it was fitting for Rosalia to choose her name.
“I have a surprise for you,” Madre Carmela said in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one heard her.
She reached into the pocket of her habit, keeping her hand curled as she drew it out. She then placed it in the pocket of Rosalia’s habit.
“What are you doing?” Rosalia whispered.
“It’s a little celebratory treat for you. For after the ceremony. It’s natural to be nervous. I was nervous when I took my vows. Once the ceremony is over, and when you’re alone, you can see what I gave you.” Madre Carmela winked before taking her leave of Rosalia.
She had no time to wonder what Madre Carmela had placed in her pocket. The ceremony was beginning. Rosalia shifted her thoughts and focused on the proceedings. She prayed with her fellow novitiates as they went through the customs of the so
lemn ceremony: lying prostrate before the altar; pronouncing their final vows as they promised to follow a life of poverty, chastity, and obedience; accepting the ring that she would wear forever on her right hand; and finally, the last rite that would make her a bride of Christ—wearing a crown of thorns to symbolize that, like Christ, she would welcome the sufferings of the Lord and follow in His selfless example.
The crown was placed on her head. She was now Sorella Agata.
One by one, Madre and the other sisters from the convent, as well as Anunziata, Mari, Lidia, and Elisabetta—who had taken her vows last year and was now Sorella Lucia—came over and congratulated her.
“Auguri, Sorella Agata.”
It was strange to hear her new name and title. But she liked how it sounded. She was sure it must have been odd for her friends to see her now dressed as a nun and to become accustomed to calling her by a different name.
Once they returned to the convent and had a celebratory dinner, Sorella Agata excused herself. She needed some time alone. The enormity of the occasion was beginning to settle on her.
She closed the door to her bedroom and sat on the bed. A few moments passed while she simply stared at herself in a small hand-held mirror. Gone was her long, lustrous black hair. It had been shorn the night before. The few dresses she had possessed she had given to Anunziata.
She stood up and looked down at her long habit. Smoothing wrinkles down the front and sides, she felt a few marble-sized objects in her pocket—Madre Carmela’s gift for her.
Reaching into her pocket, Sorella Agata pulled out a handful of small objects that looked like candy, but upon closer inspection she saw they were marzipan, shaped like little green olives.
“Olivette di Sant’ Agata,” Sorella Agata said aloud to herself and smiled.
Along with the Virgin’s Breasts miniature cassatas that were made in honor of Saint Agatha and for her feast day, Saint Agatha’s Little Olives were also made to celebrate the saint. There was a legend that, when Saint Agatha realized she could no longer escape death, she grasped the branch of a sterile olive tree, and because of the contact made with her hand, the tree became fertile, blossoming and bearing fruit.
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