The Secret Ingredient By Alessia Cataudella
They say the secret ingredient to any dish is love, so maybe that’s why Nonna’s pastina not only warms the mouth, but warms the heart. Sitting at the small wooden table, my brother playfully sticks his tongue out from the other end. He squirms from side to side, and the slight squint in his green eyes is enough to communicate his frustration with the tea towel tied tightly around his neck. If it was removed, Nonna would lecture us in broken English about how he would get sporco (dirty). That would further distract her delicately scattered mind from scooping her soup of love into the bowls —so he simply sits there squirming. The orange pillow covers the tears of fabric on the chair, created by the rough bouncing of my five older cousins from years before. As I stare at the pillow, it dawns on me that all my cousins could probably recall this exact moment the same way I could, except mine would involve a lot more “dai, mangia!” (come on, eat!). They would scarf down their pastina, while I savour the taste — that’s where our stories would differ. Ladle in one hand, wooden bowl in the other, Nonna dips into the deep pot that rests on top of the old white stove. Slowly, the ladle rises and the soup streams into the bowl. Steam resembles smoke from a cigarette, while the sporadic plops of the pastina echo in my ears. Heads turn, eyes widen, mouths water: “Ecco” (here). Nonna’s shaky, wrinkled hands gently place the bowls of soup right underneath our noses; the little pastina balls are swimming in the deep red broth.
- 10 -
