The Secret Ingredient by Alessia Cataudella (pg

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 -

The bowl is filled to the brim, which is no surprise considering that Nonna is constantly trying to expand my petite, bird-like appetite. The cold metal spoon instantly becomes warm as it is carefully lowered into the bowl of soup and raised to the mouth. Blowing on the pastina, the broth shakes, while my eyes gleam like those of a little kid who just found out they could have McDonalds for dinner. . . except pastina is way better than McDonalds. The warmth starts in the tongue, slowly seeps down the throat and then into the whole body. Comforted, as if I were sipping hot chocolate, next to a fireplace, covered in blankets. The mind picturing a desolate world without pastina, as if it were the secret key to life. Although my heart smiles, the full eightyear-old stomach is going to kick and scream if one more bit enters it. Pushing the bowl aside, Nonna doesn’t allow departure from the table until every last drop is finished. The once steaming soup is now cold, forcing its way into my stomach and Nonna’s “You need to grow big and strong” speech comes to a close. As I head back to the Nintendo DS that rests on the living room table, the classic saying is tweaked — the secret ingredient to a dish is love and eating it when it’s warm. . . too bad old habits die hard.