Uncle Tito wrapped his arms around my shoulders, steering me back toward the apartments. “We better get the other women up. If not, Theresa might take a water pail to the bed. The sisters do not understand the meaning of languor.”
“What do we have to do?”
“Ah well, just about everything. This is a farm,sì?And there is always much to be done.”
* * *
Over the course of the next three days, my tribe and I became well aquatinted with the farm. But we were mostly delegated to the kitchen, where we turned out cannoli in a serious flow. Thetre sorellewere serious about their cannolo making. They delivered all over Sicily, even to Northern Italy. They were especially well known for their homemade cream.
Serafina and Lena were both married, and their husbands and sons ran the sheep farm behind the villa we were in. And the place worked like clockwork. Every morning Serafina and Lena’s husbands would rise before the sun, going out to meet hundreds of sheep that they milked. Afterward, the milk was turned into the ricotta cheese that thetre sorelleturned into their famous cannolo filling.
Since Serafina and Lena’s husbands were both getting up in age, they had turned the cheese making over to their sons. On my second day, I found myself watching the process, fascinated by the ritual. No part of the milk was wasted. Tuma was made first, and then would be left to make pecorino. What was left was turned into ricotta. The final whey would go to the pigs and lambs as slop. Whatever was left over at the bottom of the copper pot was fed to the men’s sheep dogs.
Lena’s husband was especially kind and explained a few tricks of the trade. Such as, in order to get the cheese just right, he had to listen to the sounds and judge from there when to take the pot away from the heat in time. He also used a spliced fig branch to stir the pot, claiming it did something special to the mixture. Other than that, he used a large chestnut spoon to stir.
The sisters mostly kept us in the kitchen though. They explained that their daughters-in-law and granddaughters-in-law—the two sisters had mostly grandsons—all participated in the business, but for some reason or the other, they were short handed. Most of the grandson’s wives were pregnant. One or the other would be in or out during the day, and the noise in the kitchen would rise to Rosaria’s pitch sometimes. As an outsider looking in, it would be natural to think that the women were arguing, but most of the time it was healthy discussions about this or that.
Rosaria, Chiara, and I were assigned duties. Rosaria was a good roller, so that was where the sisters placed her. Chiara was good at nothing but could keep an eye on the frying dough. She hated it. She claimed she was breaking out due to the grease. We’d attempted to give her the stern eye when the sisters had watched us make our cannolo to see where we going to be placed. But she wasn’t paying any attention and got the fryer position. We let ours burn on purpose. I stuffed them, since the sisters claimed that I made them look pretty.
We were also given clothes to wear. Dresses that brought me back to the 1940s—oversized sweaters and wool stockings and simple boots. We were forced to keep our hair back in low buns.
“No stinking hair in our cannoli!” Lena had said, pulling Rosaria’s hair back with force.
All we needed were glasses connected to a necklace to complete the look.
The men were starting to flow back with the hands of time too. It wasn’t unusual to see them in Coppola hats, vests, and khaki pants. Life on a farm didn’t require custom-made suits and thousand-dollar watches.
Tradition in this part of Italy seemed more ingrained, roots dug into the ground just as firmly as the fig tree that Lena’s husband pulled the branch from.
Serafina kept all of her family’s traditional Sicilian clothing in pristine condition. Every once in a while, the sisters, or the daughter-in-laws, or even the grandson’s wives, would dress up in them, taking their cannoli and pecorino to sell in the markets. The dresses had a gypsy vibe: long, flowing skirts, sometimes heavily embroidered, with thick belts, sometimes with stretching ties, vests, and headscarves. I found them romantic. Rosaria cried out for her expensive clothes. Chiara shrugged and saidokay.
One of the granddaughters, who had an infant son and a round belly about ready for delivery, insisted that she take pictures of us in the costumes. Out of all the granddaughters, she seemed more business minded.
She wanted to have posters made to take with them to the markets. It was her idea to have the sister’sfaces turned into characters to paint on the side of the delivery van. However, this idea was vetoed.
I had offered to taketheirpictures for the marketing paraphernalia, since it wastheirfamily business, but this was met with more than one firm no. A few of the women felt our faces were more suited for selling.
Rosaria huffed and puffed through the entire ordeal.
“At least I do not have to fry today!” Chiara said, relieved to be doing anything else.
“You do not need to be standing by the fryer to experience it.Eau de lardis a new perfume that lasts for days.” Rosaria sniffed at her hair. “Ugh.”
We all laughed, knowing it was true. It was nice to be out in the fresh air, soaking up some of the watery sun before the weather turned bitter. I could feel it coming, a hard winter. And the closeness to silence was Godly. Except for the constant, distant bleating of sheep, white flecks dotting the countryside like snowflakes, it was serene.
Every evening, after I had stuffed so many cannoli that even being close to death would never make me want one, Romeo took me on walks to get me out of the villa and into quiet. He seemed to know that I needed it. He seemed to need it too. He and I spoke, but only if I asked a question.
The air always felt cooler when Romeo and I explored. The direct heat at this time of the day was manna to my skin.
I narrowed my eyes at a figure in the distance, holding a box in his arms, two white heads peeking over the sides. It was Vincenzo and a cargo of two baby sheep. He had been joining Romeo and me on our walks. He never started out with us, but we ended our stroll with him in tow. Quiet as the two of us, he was welcome to his own thoughts.
His raven hair was pulled back tight into a ponytail, his coal eyes shimmering in response to the low sun. He smelled like fodder and firewood.
I put a hand up to shield my eyes as he came closer, the two heads in the box peering out, almost inquisitive. I laughed and reached out to pet one of the lambs. It nudged my hand with its soft head, wanting me to pet it harder.
“Where’s Romeo?” I asked. It was a shock that he wasn’t around.
A slow grin slid on Vincenzo’s face. “He is discussing your freedom with the sisters.” He looked me over from top to bottom. “Since you are required to wear this, we feel you deserve a break from the operation.”
