RAVIOLOGENESIS
The aisles of Italian supermarkets did not become theatre of fights over toilet paper, but yeast and 00 flour disappeared from the shelves within days after the first lockdown was announced. Making pasta from scratch is one of the epic endeavours that many forced to stay at home have embarked on. It has produced variable results, but has been widely documented on Instagram. For many others, including my aunt Lidia, pasta making is a daily ritual, whose frequency has not diminished its sacrality. Pasta is Italy’s staple food and one of the few things that can still stir some patriotism in its self-deprecating citizens. Traditions concerning food preparation cannot be questioned: when it comes to carbonara’s ingredients, Italians’ attitude is dogmatic, stuffing lasagne with chicken is blasphemy. Lidia is making ravioli, her hands move quickly, each action is automatic and dictated by habit, not recipes. Through her touch, the simple ingredients on the table acquire destiny and purpose. Lidia’s arthritic fingers have God-like powers: Stirring, kneading and rolling, she is actually creating. As you see shapes emerging from flour-dusted chaos, and admire how the steel stamp imposes order to the dough, you can appreciate the biblical dimension of the ravioli-making process. It reminds me of Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, it is a rolling-pin masterpiece. Creation is an act of love, so is making pasta. Lidia puts ingredients together to bring people together, her ravioli are fat square love letters for her family. She counterbalances this culinary expression of affection with her grumbles “Are you watching me? Are you learning? Who is going to make ravioli after I die?”. Rituals take time, everyone must wait to taste ravioli, not seven days, but four hours, until the pasta has dried. In the meantime, you can admire Lidia’s creation, but try to steal it and you will risk a smack on the hand, or drooling snout.