Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop Read online

  From preparing the pale-green marzipan that was used to line the sides of the cake pan and gave the cassata its trademark color to ensuring the ricotta cream she used for the filling had the right amount of sweetness, Sorella Agata loved everything about making the cassata that had come to symbolize her beloved Sicily—for it was one of the island’s most treasured desserts. And she took great pride in the elaborate designs she created on the cake once it was assembled and a lemon icing was spread over its top. She liked to fill a piping bag with melted chocolate and then create a border of decorative swirls around the cake. Then in the center, she used candied fruits and arranged them in the shape of a flower. The cake was a stunning work of art once it was completed. Yet whenever she made the cassata, an overwhelming sadness took hold of her.

  As a deeply spiritual woman, Sorella Agata did not believe in superstition, which was hard since Sicilians steadfastly adhered to decades-long superstitions. But she was beginning to think the cake had some sort of malocchio, or evil eye, attached to it. Malocchio was usually cast by a jealous person. Perhaps she wasn’t so far off in accusing the pastry chefs—who had visited her and claimed she had a secret ingredient that she was loath to share—of being jealous?

  “Basta! Enough! It is just a cake and nothing more!”

  “Sorella Agata, stai bene?” Madre Carmela stood before her, looking concerned.

  “Si, si, Madre. Just talking out loud—as usual. I am fine. There is nothing to worry about.” She managed a smile for the elderly nun.

  Madre Carmela had been the mother superior at the convent and the head pastry chef of the shop until 1985, when she relinquished both roles to Sorella Agata. The success of the pastry shop had begun with Madre Carmela and, as such, she would always hold a special place in the convent. It saddened Sorella Agata to see the senior nun’s increasingly failing health due to her dementia and rheumatoid arthritis. But Madre Carmela still insisted on doing whatever she could manage in the pastry shop’s kitchen.

  “Signorina Lombardo is waiting for you in the courtyard. She was worried you had forgotten since you were supposed to meet at four.”

  Sorella Agata glanced at the large round clock that hung above their pantry. It was fifteen minutes past the hour. She wasn’t that late, but she supposed the writer was anxious to get her work started.

  “I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Shall I let her know?”

  “No, that’s all right, Madre Carmela.”

  The old nun’s gaze wandered around the kitchen, as she tried to assess what she could do. Sorella Agata tried to give her work that wouldn’t be too taxing. She noticed a batch of Ravioli di Ricotta—Sweet Ricotta Turnovers—that had just been fried and were draining on a plate of paper towels.

  “Madre, those ravioli need to be dusted with powdered sugar.”

  “Si. I will do so right away.” Madre Carmela walked slowly over to the pantry, where she located the powdered sugar. She then took a small fine-meshed sieve off one of the many hooks that hung around the kitchen’s walls and held various cooking instruments from pans to colanders. Sorella Agata watched her as she transferred the drained sweet ravioli to a decorative serving platter. With shaky hands, she used the mesh sieve to sprinkle the powdered sugar over the fried pastries. Sorella Agata had no doubt there would be uneven clumps of sugar on the ravioli. But Madre Carmela was the only worker in the pastry shop from whom she did not expect perfection. Sorella Agata wondered how much longer Madre Carmela would be able to continue helping out in the kitchen.

  Turning her thoughts away from Madre Carmela, she checked on the anise cookies in the oven. About five more minutes until they were ready. Spotting Veronique, one of their apprentices in the pastry shop, walking by in the corridor with a pile of just laundered towels, Sorella Agata called out to her.

  “Veronique! Can you please come here?”

  Veronique was only nineteen years old, but she was very devoted to her work in the pastry shop. Her stunning good looks often led others to believe she was older, and while she was bright and intelligent, she still had a certain naïveté about her, especially in her habit of asking too many questions or slightly inappropriate ones. Sorella Agata credited this to her immense curiosity, which got the better of her at times, and she prayed in time Veronique would improve. But she could never be irate with her. For the young woman held a very special place in her heart, and even the other nuns had a soft spot for her. They all thought of her as their little sister, even though she had no intention of taking vows to become a nun.

  “Sorella Agata, who is that beautiful woman sitting in the courtyard?”

  One would think that with Veronique’s inquisitive nature, she would have known by now that Claudia was writing a recipe book about the convent’s pastry shop and was here to interview Sorella Agata. But the older nuns also frowned upon her excessively nosy behavior and kept as much as they could from her. “It’s for her own good, after all,” they would say. Sorella Agata couldn’t help feeling the other sisters were being petty and should understand that Veronique’s young age accounted for much of her naïveté. She was after all still a teenager, and she’d been through a lot in her short life.

  “Her name is Claudia Lombardo. She is a food writer from America—New York City, in fact—and she is here to write a book featuring our pastries as well as the history of the pastry shop.”

  “A writer? From New York City? How wonderful! I must tell everyone.” Veronique turned to leave, but Sorella Agata stopped her with a firm grip to her shoulder.

  “Wait! You do not need to tell them. They know already. Besides, I need your help here. When the timer goes off, please take the anise cookies out of the oven and bring a few out on a plate to Signorina Lombardo and me. And please, Veronique, do not ask her any questions. She is here to interview me, not the other way around.”

  “Va bene, Sorella Agata.” Veronique sighed, not even attempting to hide her extreme disappointment. “I’ll just take these towels first to the linen closet.”

  “Let me. I am all done sprinkling sugar on these ravioli.”

  Madre Carmela took the towels from Veronique and held them up against her chest so that her arthritic hands wouldn’t drop them.

  Sorella Agata walked over to their espresso and cappuccino machine and poured two demitasse cups of espresso for Claudia and herself. They had only been able to purchase the expensive machine two years ago. Before they had the machine, the job of several workers in the kitchen was strictly to make espresso so that a few pots were always brewed and ready to serve their long lines of customers. But now that they had the machine and could make espresso and cappuccino in half the time, they were able to put the workers to use elsewhere in the kitchen.

  As she stepped out into the courtyard, she observed Claudia seated at one of the café-style tables the convent kept for their patrons who wanted to eat their pastries while enjoying the outdoors and their garden. Veronique was right in noting that the writer was beautiful. Her long chestnut brown hair was clipped up in a sloppy French twist, but its imperfect shape suited her relaxed style. She wore jeans that hugged her tall, lithe frame and a sleeveless top in a stunning shade of coral. A leather messenger bag rested on the empty seat beside her. Sorella Agata expected to see a laptop, but to her surprise Claudia was writing on a legal pad. Large, oval brown sunglasses covered her eyes. Sorella Agata hoped she would remove them when they began their discussion. She hated not being able to read people’s expressions, and she was already feeling a bit anxious about their interview.

  “I’m sorry I am late, Claudia.” Sorella Agata placed the cups of espresso on the table and sat down opposite her guest.

  “That’s all right. But I must admit I was a little nervous I had scared you off with our earlier conversation and that you had changed your mind completely about the book.” Claudia smiled shyly as she took off her sunglasses.

  At the mention of their awkward discussion, Sorella Agata felt bad once more at how s
he had reacted.

  “I should be the one to apologize, Claudia.”

  “No, please don’t, Sister.” Claudia reached out and patted her hand.

  “Excuse me.” Veronique quietly spoke as she approached the two women. While she was doing her best to keep her gaze lowered and not stare at Claudia, Sorella Agata could see she kept stealing sidelong glances as she placed the plate of anise cookies on the table.

  Taking pity on her, Sorella Agata said, “Claudia, this is Veronique, one of our apprentices in the shop.”

  Veronique was so surprised that Sorella Agata had acknowledged her presence, she merely stared at Claudia and remained silent.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Veronique.” Claudia extended her hand, which Veronique took, but not before glancing first at Sorella Agata for her approval. Sorella Agata gave a slight nod of her head.

  “Perhaps I can ask you a few questions during my stay here, with Sorella Agata’s permission of course? It would just be a few questions about your work in the pastry shop.”

  “Yes, I would like that very much, Signorina Lombardo.”

  “Please, Claudia.”

  Again, Veronique looked to Sorella Agata for approval.

  “If Signorina Lombardo wishes to be called Claudia, by all means you must honor her request, Veronique. Now, please excuse us. We have a lot to cover before dinner.”

  “Have a nice day,” Veronique softly said before walking away.

  “And you as well,” Claudia said, smiling warmly. She noticed Veronique had an accent that didn’t seem completely Italian, but she couldn’t quite place it.

  Sorella Agata waited until she was certain Veronique was out of earshot before saying, “You must forgive her . . . How do you say in English . . . enthusiasm?”

  “Yes, enthusiasm.”

  “You must forgive her abundant enthusiasm. She still has a lot to learn, but she is a bright young woman. I have high hopes for her.”

  “I’m sure. You do not mind that I would like to talk to her and a few of the other workers—just to get their experiences as well?”

  “No, that’s perfectly fine.”

  Claudia bit into one of the anise cookies. “Oh, these are to die for! And they just came out of the oven!” She closed her eyes, savoring the cookies’ sweet licorice flavor from the anise oil.

  Sorella Agata smiled, pleased that her intention of surprising Claudia with the warm cookies had worked.

  “I thought you might like these with your espresso. They have an—”

  “Anise extract. Yes, I can taste it. They’re heavenly.”

  “Grazie. We actually use anise oil here instead of extract. I feel its essence is purer and imparts a stronger flavor.”

  “Anise oil. Interesting.” Claudia scribbled on her pad.

  “So I was thinking we could start with the pastries first, then proceed to biscotti and cakes, and cover the specialized desserts like gelati and granite last. Oh, I forgot my recipe book.” Sorella Agata began to get up, but Claudia stopped her.

  “Actually, Sister, I would like to start with your story—the history of the pastry shop, how you fell in love with pastry making, and of course a little about your life.”

  “But we have a lot of recipes to cover.”

  “Yes, but as I mentioned to you in my e-mails, your story is important for this book, too. I don’t want this to just be a straight recipe book. People who know about you and what you have done with this pastry shop are fascinated. I not only want to share with the world your wonderful pastries, but also the inspiration behind them as well as your passion for what you do. I know I’ve only just arrived here today, but I sense there is a strong familial bond between the sisters and even the lay workers you employ in your kitchen. I want this book to convey the intimate story behind the pastries and the love you all share for them.”

  Sorella Agata’s face looked pensive. “I see. I am touched you could see all of that since you only just arrived today.”

  “I am a writer. It’s my job to be observant.” Claudia winked at Sorella Agata before reaching into her messenger bag and producing a tape recorder.

  “So if you are ready, Sorella, let’s begin.”

  Sorella Agata finished the last of her espresso. Folding her hands in her lap, she said, “I am ready whenever you are, Claudia.”

  “Where did your inspiration for pastries come from? Naturally, as a nun here I know you would’ve had no choice but to help with the shop. But what I want to know is your true inspiration for taking this shop and turning it into the success it is today. I want to know when it was that your passion for the art of pastry making began.”

  Sorella Agata took a deep breath. “Well, it all started with a young woman by the name of Rosalia. I guess you can say she was my muse.”

  3

  Lulus

  SICILIAN CREAM PUFFS

  October 5, 1955

  Rosalia was back home. Her family surrounded her: Mamma and Papà, her older brother, Luca, and her little sister, Cecilia. Rosalia hopped up and down while her family held hands and danced the tarantella, circling around her first in one direction, and then in the other. Sicilian folk music played, and when the tempo picked up her family danced even faster, closing the circle in on Rosalia—her cue to switch places with another family member. Her eyes locked onto Luca’s and in a split second they made the switch. Now her brother was the one they circled around. Rosalia, her parents, and Cecilia could not stop laughing. Whenever Luca was in the center of the tarantella circle, he made a spectacle of himself as he contorted his expression into various silly faces and danced like a madman.

  Rosalia laughed harder and harder even as a fierce wave of vertigo took hold. But soon her laughter became a piercing shriek as she felt herself pulled out of her family’s embrace and sucked into a dark hole.

  “Rosalia! Rosalia! Wake up, my dear girl. It is just a dream. You are here at the Convento di Santa Lucia del Mela. You are safe now.” Madre Carmela stroked the young woman’s long bangs, which were wet with perspiration, off her forehead. Her lush dark locks were braided, reminding Madre Carmela of two shiny pieces of black licorice. Working in the pastry shop for so many years, she had made a habit of comparing everything in life to food.

  Rosalia’s gaze wandered around the room. Then her eyes met Madre Carmela’s. She stared at her for a moment, but once familiarity set in she exhaled a long sigh.

  “Are you hungry? I’ve brought you something very special today.” Madre Carmela left Rosalia’s bedside and went over to the dresser, where a bowl covered with a linen napkin sat.

  Curious, Rosalia sat up in bed, straining her neck to see what delicacies the good nun had brought her today. These past few weeks, since Madre Carmela and the other sisters had found Rosalia by the cave, her only comfort had been in the daily sweets they brought to her. She had always loved her mother’s baked goods, but what the sisters had here was a whole new world of pastries Rosalia had never heard of. It was almost like La Festa dell’Epifania, the Feast of the Epiphany, where La Befana—or the good witch—brought gifts to all the small children. Rosalia remembered that her parents were always careful to save their money lest hard times fall on them. But they always managed to ensure that La Befana brought gifts to their children. The presents ranged from the ripest, largest oranges or pears to pistachios, almonds, and sweet dates to a shiny new red ball for Rosalia and a perfectly chiseled wooden car for Luca to race. One year, little Cecilia even received a porcelain doll that came all the way from Palermo, Sicily’s capital. Though Rosalia was no longer a little girl, she still felt that same sense of excitement whenever the nuns unveiled their pastries.

  Madre Carmela brought the covered bowl over to Rosalia. A subtle, sweet aroma reached Rosalia’s nose. Her mouth watered in anticipation of whatever culinary surprise Madre Carmela had for her today. Instead of waiting for the sister to unfold the napkin, Rosalia pulled it back herself and almost gasped when she saw what delights were in store for her.
Puffy clusters of dough in vanilla and chocolate were piled one on top of the other to form a misshapen pyramid. Chocolate and vanilla cream oozed from a few of the pastries.

  “Ha-ha! I see you couldn’t wait.” Madre Carmela gently teased Rosalia, who quickly looked up, her cheeks turning the same hot pink hue as the sugar roses the nuns had painstakingly created this morning for a wedding cake.

  “That’s all right, my child. I’m happy to see you are feeling more comfortable here. Go ahead. Have as many as you like.”

  Rosalia wondered which one she should try first—the chocolate or the vanilla. She’d always loved anything vanilla, so she opted for one of those first. Instead of taking a small, tentative bite out of the pastry, as she would have done her first few weeks at the convent, she popped the whole sweet at once into her mouth, eliciting another hearty laugh from Madre Carmela. But this time, Rosalia wasn’t embarrassed. She closed her eyes, savoring the pastry’s airy, flaky crust and the rich sweetness of the vanilla cream. Her sadness over her dream was quickly dissipating.

  “What are they called?” Rosalia asked in a soft voice as she took a bite out of one of the chocolate pastries.

  Madre Carmela was surprised. The girl had only spoken a few sentences since they found her. She mostly nodded or shook her head whenever Madre Carmela or the other nuns asked her a question. Sometimes, Madre Carmela had been able to coax a small smile out of her, but that was it. This week marked a month since they had rescued Rosalia. Madre Carmela was beginning to worry she might not ever get through to the terrified young woman. Her hope had been in the pastries. Whenever Rosalia ate one of the shop’s creations, Madre Carmela detected a flicker of light in her eyes. Now at last it appeared that the sweets had managed to crack through Rosalia’s shell.