down!” In response to every question people asked as they embraced him, he gave a conspiratorial laugh. “When did you build that oven?” “Where did you find this table?” “You should have told us to bring something.” Raffaele would smile and say only, “Sit down, don’t worry about anything. Make yourselves at home.”
Carmela and her family were the first to arrive, but no sooner had they sat down than they heard some loud shouting from the staircase. It was Domenico with his wife and two daughters, followed by Giuseppe, his wife, and little Vittorio, their son. They were all there. They kissed and embraced. The women complimented each other on the elegance of their outfits. The men traded cigarettes and tossed their nieces and nephews in the air, the little ones screaming with delight in the grips of these giants. Carmela sat apart from the rest for a moment, just long enough to contemplate the reunion of their small community. Everyone she loved was there, radiant in a Sunday light in which the color of the women’s dresses caressed the whiteness of the men’s shirts. The sea was soft and pleasant. She smiled a rare sort of smile, the kind that shows confidence in life. Her eyes drifted over each one of them. Over Giuseppe and his wife Mattea, the daughter of a fisherman who, in his personal vocabulary, had replaced the word “woman” with the word “whore,” so that it was not uncommon to hear him greet a female friend in the street with a resounding “ Ciao puttana! ” to the laughter of the passersby. Carmela’s gaze came softly to rest on the children: Lucrezia and Nicoletta, Domenico’s two daughters, in their beautiful white dresses; Vittorio— Giuseppe and Mattea’s boy—whose mother would give him her breast, murmuring: “Drink, little fool, drink, it’s all yours”; and Michele, the most recent member of the clan, wailing in his diapers as the women passed him around. She gazed at them all and told herself that they could all be happy one day. Simply happy.
She was roused from her thoughts by the voice of Raffaele, who was shouting, “Everyone to the table! Everyone to the table!” So she got up and did what she had resolved to do. Look after her family. Laugh with them, embrace them, lavish attention on them. Be there for each in turn, gracefully, happily.
There were fifteen of them at the table. They all looked at one another for a few seconds, surprised at how much the clan had grown. Raffaele glowed with happiness and gourmandise. He had long dreamed of this moment. Everyone he loved was there, at his place, on his trabucco . He kept running from one corner to the other, from the oven to the kitchen, the fishing nets to the table, without respite, making sure that everyone was served and wanted for nothing.
This day remained etched in the Scortas’ memories. For every one of them, adults as well as children, it was the first time they had ever eaten this way. Uncle Faelucc’ had really done things right. For the antipasti , Raffaele and Giuseppina brought some ten different dishes to the table. There were mussels as big as your thumb, stuffed with a mixture of eggs, bread and cheese. Fried anchovies. Marinated anchovies whose flesh was firm and melted in your mouth. Octopus tentacles. A salad of tomato and chicory. A few thin slices of grilled eggplant. People passed the dishes from one end of the table to the other. Everyone dug in, happy not to have to choose, happy they could eat it all.
Once the platters were empty, Raffaele brought two enormous, steaming bowls to the table. The first contained a traditional pasta dish typical of the region, troccoli in squid ink; the other, a seafood risotto. The dishes were greeted with a general hurrah that made Giuseppina, the cook, blush. It was one of those moments when one’s appetite seems endless and it’s as if one could keep eating for days. Raffaele also set down five bottles of local wine, a sharp red wine, dark as the
Carmela and her family were the first to arrive, but no sooner had they sat down than they heard some loud shouting from the staircase. It was Domenico with his wife and two daughters, followed by Giuseppe, his wife, and little Vittorio, their son. They were all there. They kissed and embraced. The women complimented each other on the elegance of their outfits. The men traded cigarettes and tossed their nieces and nephews in the air, the little ones screaming with delight in the grips of these giants. Carmela sat apart from the rest for a moment, just long enough to contemplate the reunion of their small community. Everyone she loved was there, radiant in a Sunday light in which the color of the women’s dresses caressed the whiteness of the men’s shirts. The sea was soft and pleasant. She smiled a rare sort of smile, the kind that shows confidence in life. Her eyes drifted over each one of them. Over Giuseppe and his wife Mattea, the daughter of a fisherman who, in his personal vocabulary, had replaced the word “woman” with the word “whore,” so that it was not uncommon to hear him greet a female friend in the street with a resounding “ Ciao puttana! ” to the laughter of the passersby. Carmela’s gaze came softly to rest on the children: Lucrezia and Nicoletta, Domenico’s two daughters, in their beautiful white dresses; Vittorio— Giuseppe and Mattea’s boy—whose mother would give him her breast, murmuring: “Drink, little fool, drink, it’s all yours”; and Michele, the most recent member of the clan, wailing in his diapers as the women passed him around. She gazed at them all and told herself that they could all be happy one day. Simply happy.
She was roused from her thoughts by the voice of Raffaele, who was shouting, “Everyone to the table! Everyone to the table!” So she got up and did what she had resolved to do. Look after her family. Laugh with them, embrace them, lavish attention on them. Be there for each in turn, gracefully, happily.
There were fifteen of them at the table. They all looked at one another for a few seconds, surprised at how much the clan had grown. Raffaele glowed with happiness and gourmandise. He had long dreamed of this moment. Everyone he loved was there, at his place, on his trabucco . He kept running from one corner to the other, from the oven to the kitchen, the fishing nets to the table, without respite, making sure that everyone was served and wanted for nothing.
This day remained etched in the Scortas’ memories. For every one of them, adults as well as children, it was the first time they had ever eaten this way. Uncle Faelucc’ had really done things right. For the antipasti , Raffaele and Giuseppina brought some ten different dishes to the table. There were mussels as big as your thumb, stuffed with a mixture of eggs, bread and cheese. Fried anchovies. Marinated anchovies whose flesh was firm and melted in your mouth. Octopus tentacles. A salad of tomato and chicory. A few thin slices of grilled eggplant. People passed the dishes from one end of the table to the other. Everyone dug in, happy not to have to choose, happy they could eat it all.
Once the platters were empty, Raffaele brought two enormous, steaming bowls to the table. The first contained a traditional pasta dish typical of the region, troccoli in squid ink; the other, a seafood risotto. The dishes were greeted with a general hurrah that made Giuseppina, the cook, blush. It was one of those moments when one’s appetite seems endless and it’s as if one could keep eating for days. Raffaele also set down five bottles of local wine, a sharp red wine, dark as the
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