Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  “If you wouldn’t mind, Sorella, I would love to see this shelter you founded before I head back to New York.”

  Sorella Agata’s face lit up. “Of course. I would love to take you there and introduce you to a few of the women.”

  “So you must see Antonio regularly since his granddaughter stays here part of the week. How has it been these past few years since he’s been back?”

  “He has continued to be the dear friend he was when I needed one the most all those years ago. I, and the other sisters here, have even dined at his trattoria—free of charge!” Sorella Agata laughed.

  It was good for Claudia to see her laugh after all the tears she’d seen the poor woman shed, which reminded her . . .

  “Sorella, I have yet to actually watch you make the cassata. I haven’t wanted to pressure you, but given that my stay here is almost up, do you think I could watch you make it tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow it will be, but again, I must warn you that you will be disappointed. There is—”

  “No secret ingredient. Yes, I know!” Claudia laughed.

  The following morning, Claudia woke up early and headed down to the kitchen, anxious to finally witness Sorella Agata make her cassata. Claudia tried to keep her expectations low because she knew there was the very real chance she would not discover the nun’s secret since Sorella Agata kept insisting there wasn’t one.

  When Claudia reached the kitchen, she was surprised to see an older gentleman taking a baking sheet out of the oven. Puffy-looking cookies coated in confectioners’ sugar lined the baking sheet. Claudia didn’t think she’d ever seen cookies that were baked with confectioners’ sugar rather than dusting the powdered sugar on the cookies after they had baked. The man looked up when Claudia stepped in.

  “Buongiorno,” she said, and smiled.

  “Buongiorno. You must be Claudia.” The gentleman wiped his hands with a dish towel and came over, extending his hand. “Antonio Bruni.”

  Claudia was speechless for a moment before she realized she’d left him hanging with his hand extended. Shaking his hand, she said, “I’m sorry. Need my espresso.” She laughed lightly. “I’m Claudia Lombardo, but you knew that already.”

  Though he spoke heavily accented English, it was much better than Sorella Agata’s English. She wondered when he had had the time to learn English since it sounded like he had been kept busy with his culinary training and running his restaurant in Paris and now the one in Sicily.

  “Si, my granddaughter Veronique and Sorella Agata have told me about you and your book. Veronique is so excited. She can’t wait to see the book.”

  “She’s a lovely young woman, and from what I understand, she is on her way to becoming a fine pastry chef, just like Sorella Agata.”

  “Si, she is learning from the best. Me, as well.” Antonio laughed boisterously.

  “Sorella Agata did tell me you and she shared a friendly competition when you were both apprentices here years ago.”

  “Si, si.” Antonio’s eyes seemed to go to that moment in time as he stared at the wall behind Claudia. “Have you seen this photograph?”

  Claudia looked to where Antonio gestured with his head.

  “No, I don’t believe I have.” She walked over to the photograph.

  It was an old black-and-white photo of the nuns at the convent. The photo looked like it could’ve been from the fifties from the style of eyeglasses a few of the nuns were wearing.

  “See this young woman here?”

  He pointed to where three women were standing, dressed in sundresses. The woman he pointed to had long black hair that was blowing in the breeze. Some of her hair covered part of her face.

  “That is Sorella Agata. Or rather, that was her before she became a nun. She went by Rosalia back then.” Antonio looked at the photo, smiling.

  Claudia moved in closer. “My God, she was absolutely breathtaking. Her hair was so long.”

  “It was. Beautiful, dazzling black hair. But she is still beautiful. Such an amazing woman.”

  Claudia looked at Antonio. His eyes beamed as he said this, and she thought she heard his voice catch a little. He still loved her. While it likely wasn’t the same passionate love he and Rosalia had once shared when they were young, there was no doubt he continued to care for her very much.

  “Vieni. You must try the batch of Fior di Pistacchio I have made.”

  Claudia followed him to the counter where the baking sheet of cookies he’d taken out of the oven lay.

  “So, I’m surprised Sorella Agata lets you bake in her kitchen.” Claudia smiled before taking one of the Fior di Pistacchio.

  “Eh. She lets me dabble. We did learn in this kitchen side by side all those years ago after all.”

  “These are so good.”

  “They are cookies made with pistachios and almonds, soft cookies, not like biscotti. There is another version called Fior di Mandorla that is made only with almonds. When Sorella Agata and I were apprenticing here, we tried the Fior di Mandorla from one of the best pastry shops in Messina. We memorized how they tasted, and then we came back here and made the convent’s Fior di Mandorla taste even better than the ones we had in Messina.”

  Claudia remembered when Sorella Agata had told her about the first time Antonio had taken her to Messina, and she remembered her mentioning the almond cookies. But she didn’t let Antonio know just how much Sorella Agata had told her about their shared past.

  He looked at his watch. “Ah! I must go. It was nice to meet you, Claudia. Arrivederci!”

  “It was nice to meet you, too.”

  She watched Antonio as he walked away and tried to imagine what he must’ve looked like when he was young. He wasn’t in the group photo he had shown her. Maybe he was the one who had taken the picture? From the way he had aged, she was certain he had been a very handsome young man.

  An hour later, Claudia was watching Sorella Agata make her famous cassata. Claudia had her legal pad in one hand and jotted down all the ingredients Sorella Agata was adding as well as noting her methods, even though the nun’s recipe book lay open next to her. Of course, Sorella Agata no longer needed to follow her recipe book after all the years she’d been making her pastries; the book was there more for Claudia’s sake so that she could see for herself that the nun was not deviating from the recipe—or adding any secret ingredients.

  Although Sorella Agata allowed her other workers to use an electric mixer, she still preferred to beat her cake batters with a wire whisk. Being in her sixties didn’t stop her from beating the cake batter with quick strokes, and she didn’t seem to tire. Claudia smiled as she watched her and knew she would miss watching Sorella Agata and the other workers whipping up their heavenly creations. Sorella Agata seemed lost in thought as she stared at her batter, and then, suddenly, tears were sliding down her face. Reaching for a paper towel from the dispenser that stood on the counter, Claudia ripped off a sheet and was about to hand it to Sorella Agata when she noticed one of her teardrops spill into her cake batter. Claudia paused as she suddenly remembered all the times she’d witnessed Sorella Agata crying as she baked. She cried when she was making her cannoli. . . her Torta al Mandarino. . . . In fact, there were many times Claudia had seen her crying, and it was often while she was making her pastries. There had even been times when Claudia had seen Sorella Agata crying while the other pastry workers were present, but they didn’t seem to pay any heed to her. Was it because they had become accustomed to seeing her cry while she worked, and there were only so many instances one could ask her if she was all right without making the situation more awkward than it already was? A thought entered Claudia’s mind. Could the secret behind Sorella Agata’s cassata be her tears? And not just her cassata, since Claudia had also noticed that the other pastries that were made by the nun’s hands always tasted better than those that were made by the rest of the workers. Sorella Agata’s pastries surpassed versions of the pastries Claudia had tried at other pastry shops in Sicily and even back home
in New York. No, it was too crazy.

  “Sorella, I’m sorry, but may I ask you why it seems you often cry when you are baking?”

  Sorella Agata looked up, almost as if she was surprised that she’d been crying and in Claudia’s presence. She took the paper towel that Claudia was still holding and dabbed at her tears.

  She shrugged her shoulders and sighed. “I’m a silly old woman.”

  “You’re not that old, Sorella.”

  “It’s just . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked down into her batter. Her eyes filled with tears again, but she managed to keep them at bay this time. “It’s just always the same. You would think, after all these years, I would be more accustomed to the fact that my family is not in my life. That is why I cry so much. I am often thinking about them. Even when I found Mamma, and she was living here with me, I found myself crying, thinking about Luca and how I would never see him again . . . thinking about Cecilia and Papà.”

  Claudia walked over and hugged Sorella Agata, who looked surprised for a moment, but then she returned her hug.

  “Grazie, Claudia. You are a fine young woman. I will miss you. It has helped me, talking to you about everything from my past. I hope you will come back and visit me again, someday?”

  “Of course, Sorella. And I will miss you and everyone else here. But we will be in communication until the book is published. I hope you will be happy with the finished product.”

  “I’m sure I will be. I can tell, like me, you take great pride in your work and will do an excellent job with the book.”

  Claudia smiled before adding, “Well, I must admit, Sorella Agata, it doesn’t seem like you added any secret ingredient to your cassata recipe—unless, of course, it will be in the icing, since you have yet to make that.” She winked.

  “Eh! This whole secret to my cassata was dreamed up by some fool who wanted to make a big deal out of nothing. That is all.”

  Sorella Agata poured her cake batter into the prepared pan. Claudia still could not help wondering if there was some mystical explanation for the remarkable flavor of the cassata as well as the other pastries. She supposed she and the rest of the world would just never know.

  EPILOGUE

  Cassata

  SICILIAN RICOTTA CAKE

  A year and a half later . . .

  It was Holy Saturday, the day before Easter. It was such a beautiful day that Sorella Agata decided to take her cake batter and mix it in the courtyard outside. Perhaps the sunshine and fresh air would make her feel better. She slowly walked outside to one of the café tables by the selling windows of the pastry shop. Sitting down, she paused a moment before mixing her batter, letting her eyes rove around the convent’s gardens. She noticed the leaves on the trees’ branches had multiplied since spring had started weeks ago, and the tulips and daffodils were now all in full bloom. A few birds hopped along the other café tables, looking for crumbs that had been left behind by the pastry shop’s customers who had enjoyed their pastries and cappucinos for breakfast. Sorella Agata scanned the tops of the trees, but still no bluethroat was among the birds singing there. Her heart felt heavy as her mind inevitably flashed back to her childhood, when she and her family had all been together for Easter.

  Doing her best to push these thoughts from her mind, she began whisking her batter. She was making her cassata, which was now even more famous with the publication of Claudia’s book six months ago. The book had brought more attention to the shop, and as such, they were busier than ever. Sorella Agata had had to hire more workers. She had even allowed Claudia to include her story in the book, but not all of it. No mention was made of Marco or her rape. Though she was in her sixties, the fear that he would find her some day had never left her. Sometimes, she still wondered if that man she had seen in the homeless women’s alleyway had been Marco. Claudia did include in the book that Sorella Agata had been separated from her family as a teenager and had gone to live at the convent, and she’d also added Sorella Agata’s byline against her wishes. All of Sorella Agata’s proceeds from the book went to the pastry shop and the Rifugio delle Donne Sant’ Anna. She was pleasantly surprised at how much the royalties had been. Claudia had done a beautiful job in relaying both Sorella Agata’s background and the story behind each of the pastries Convento di Santa Lucia del Mela created. In addition to the breathtaking photos of all the sweets the shop sold, Claudia had also included photos of the other nuns and pastry workers, which made them all giddy with excitement, especially Veronique.

  Sorella Agata smiled as she thought about Antonio’s granddaughter. Veronique had been a special light in her life, along with the return of her dear, old friend Antonio. They had become as much a part of her family as the other sisters and workers in the shop. She silently thanked God for giving her all of them and for every blessing in her life.

  Usually, when she reminded herself of all she had to be grateful for, her spirits lifted and she was able to put aside her sorrows. But today, it didn’t seem to help. Again, her mind replayed the scenes from her childhood when Papà would buy lilies for her and her mother on Easter Sunday after the entire family had attended Mass. Then, they would go home and celebrate with the special dinner Mamma had prepared, which usually was a roasted lamb, followed by Mamma’s lemon cake. Luca would lead the family in a prayer before they began eating, and afterward, the family would take a passeggiata in town.

  Sorella Agata stopped whisking her cake batter and wiped the tears that were quickly sliding down her face with the back of her hand. But as soon as she was done wiping them, more tears fell. Several drops fell into her batter without her noticing. She was too tired to try to stop crying, as she did on other occasions when her emotions got the better of her. Maybe that had been her mistake all along—fighting back the tears and sorrow as she repressed her deep pain over what had happened to her with Marco all those years ago and over losing her family. As she let the tears flow freely, they continued to fall into her cake batter.

  A taxi pulled up into the courtyard’s driveway, but Sorella Agata was so absorbed in her thoughts she didn’t hear it until the sound of doors slamming shut reached her ears. She looked up, squinting into the distance. The driver stepped out of the taxi and opened his trunk, taking a wheelchair out. Bringing it to the side of the vehicle, he waited as a woman helped an elderly man sit in the wheelchair. The woman paid the driver and then pushed the wheelchair with the old man down the driveway leading to the convent’s entrance. Sorella Agata stood up. She was about to walk toward them when she noticed the man was crying. He was saying something over and over again, but she couldn’t understand his words through his choked sobs. The woman, who looked to be in her mid to late fifties, stared at Sorella Agata, her lips spreading into a slow smile. Sorella Agata then noticed the woman’s hair, which was cut in a shoulder-length bob. Except for a shock of gray hair that was near the crown of the woman’s head, the rest of her hair was a deep, lustrous shade of black. That was odd. While Sorella Agata’s hair had several scattered grays throughout, she, too, had a shock of gray at the front. But she barely looked at her hair anymore since she had shorn it when she became a nun and now always covered it with her veil. An image then came to her mind of when she was young and her own hair had been as black and shiny as this woman’s hair was. Sorella Agata’s eyes opened wide as she dropped her whisk, oblivious to the cake batter that splattered all over her habit. The woman stopped pushing the wheelchair and ran toward Sorella Agata. Once she reached her, they embraced.

  “Cecilia?” Sorella Agata pulled away from her sister and took a close look at her face. “It really is you!”

  “Si, Rosalia. It is your little sister, Cecilia! How I have prayed for this and thought of you every day since you were taken from us.”

  Sorella Agata hugged her sister once more before going to her father’s side and dropping down to her knees. She took his frail hands in hers. He cried and leaned his head against Sorella Agata’s bosom. She could now make out the word he
had been repeating: “Rosalia, Rosalia.”

  She held him close, wiping the tears running down his cheeks with the back of her hand.

  “Don’t cry, Papà. We are together now.”

  “We finally found you, my dear daughter. We finally found you.”

  “You were looking for me, too, Papà?” She couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice.

  “Ever since your mother left, Cecilia and I have been looking for both of you. I made so many mistakes, Rosalia, and it took me so long to realize I was wrong. Please believe me when I say, I always thought about you and never stopped loving you, even when I believed you had left with that man. I was a fool. How could I have thought such a thing? Look at you. Look at the fine woman you have become.”

  “Papà! I missed you so much.”

  Sorella Agata hugged her father and instantly felt the heavy weight that had sat on her heart for the past fifty years begin to ease. She then turned to her sister.

  “How did you ever find me?”

  “Your book.” Cecilia took out of her handbag Claudia’s and Sorella Agata’s recipe book.

  Sorella Agata shook her head. Never in the past fifty years did she think she would be the one to be found. Like Mamma, they hadn’t given up on her after all—just as she had never given up hope she would be reunited with them someday.

  Cecilia knelt down beside Sorella Agata as the two sisters huddled around their father, forming a circle as they embraced one another. While they were happy to be together again, each of them could not help thinking that the reunion was bittersweet since not all of their family was present. But the trio didn’t notice a pair of birds on the table where Sorella Agata had left her cassata cake batter. The birds pecked at the drops of batter that had spilled and then hopped to the edge of the table, where they fixed their gazes on the DiSanta family.