Spaghetti
Sometimes it is just enough to sit in silence and watch how a dish is prepared. Step by step. Or do you know a better way to learn about an old family recipe?
Spaghetti
She stood with her back bent over the old, wooden kitchen table and protected her clothes with a white linen apron. Her red blouse was folded with military precision well above her elbows. Brown barrettes carefully held her thin gray hair together. Strands of hair danced along her temples as she strode briskly toward the corner of the kitchen. This was her kitchen. For over 60 years. As a little girl she had sat on a stool at the end of the same table. Then she was only allowed to watch in silence. Her child's brain registered every step, every movement. Until she was old enough to do it herself. She had understood that this special dish required utmost concentration. And that could only be done in silence. Every movement had to be performed in exactly the same way. If this didn't happen, the next step would only work against you.
Today I sat on that stool and watched silently as my grandmother walked back to the table with a bowl of eggs. In the middle of the table a heap of flour was waiting. With her fingers she made a hole in the center of the heap. The hole slowly filled with dark yellow egg yolk and egg white. With a few rubbing movements coarse grains of salt fell between her hands. Finally, she drizzled the whole thing with olive oil. It seemed she knew exactly how much was needed. The golden oil floated on the egg white. With her hands hovering above the table, her gaze remained focused.
I was about to ask:
‘Grandma, how do you know if it's enough salt and oil?’
She beat me to it. Her intense look and the shaking of her head made me choke my voice. It was time for the next step.
As if grandma had just gotten out of bed, she stretched her body, arms and hands reaching towards the sky. With her eyes closed she remained in that position for seconds. Her arms slowly descended in a steady motion. Her left hand touched the left side of the pile of flour. At the same time, the fingers of her right hand began to make a stirring motion in the hole. I watched breathlessly as her hands danced among the flour, salt, oil and eggs. It was a choreography of movements as her left hand made a light kneading movement. At the same time, she added little by little with her right hand the liquid from the eggs to the flour.
I watched obsessively at her hands. The flexibility of the movements. Her hands knew exactly what to do. The only audible sound was the sucking dough on the wooden table. Slowly the sticky mass changed into an elastic dough. Grandma picked up the dough and hit it a few times with the flat side of her hand. She listened. Should it sound hollow or flat? I did not know. Her expression revealed nothing. No emotion, just supreme concentration. Until I thought I saw a faint smile. Her serious look relaxed, she looked at me and nodded affirmatively. After wrapping the dough in a linen cloth, she placed it on the counter. As she opened the bow of her apron, she broke the silence: ‘Riposo.’
The art of resting
For the dough and for us. After grandma washed her hands, she left me alone in the kitchen. I stayed seated. I felt at home on that stool at the end of this table. Despite the fact that the last time I sat there, 20 years ago, was not a pleasant memory. As an eight-year-old, I crawled under the table after my mother and grandmother had gotten into a huge argument. I couldn't remember exactly what it was about. I could only recall the sudden rough hand of my mother when she pulled me out from under the table and literally dragged me out of the house. We never returned. Until this week.
After a restless period at work, I spontaneously boarded the train. I wanted to get to know the grandmother my mother had taken from me. I stood at the door late at night in the pouring rain. Grandma had first asked in a grumbling voice who was there.
‘Grandma, it's me, your granddaughter Julia.’
She opened the door in disbelief. The ice was quickly broken. After a few days I quickly realized that my love for cooking came from my grandmother. Grandma therefore decided it was time to share some family recipes with me.
‘Caffè!’ Grandma's voice woke me up from a deep sleep.
I stood up from my stool and stretched my stiff body. The percolator on the gas stove began to bubble and gave off the smell of fresh coffee. Two porcelain cups and saucers were set. Grandma stood patiently by the gas stove. There was no rush. I stood next to her and listened to how the hot water mixed with the coffee. Again it surprised me that grandma knew exactly when the coffee was ready. Grandma just smiled. With a crocheted cloth in hand, she grabbed the handle of the percolator and carefully filled the cups. As I held my cup in the air after the first sip of hot coffee, grandma had already finished her cup. With a theatrical gesture she placed the cup on the saucer. There was no time to lose! Without saying anything she put her apron back on.
The dance with the dough continued
My place was again on the stool at the end of the table. Without making any unnecessary movements, grandma picked up a handful of flour and sprinkled it into the air above the table. As soon as the first grains of flour landed on the table, she started rubbing it into the table top in circular movements. As if every grain of the table top had to be covered with flour. With the same care as picking up a baby, with both hands she gently picked up the dough. It moved me. Her two adult children had left years ago to the big city. Because there was work and a better future. They were never interested in the the heritage of family recipes. Now the time had come to pass on the family inheritance to her only granddaughter. Overcome with a sense of sadness, I blamed myself for remaining loyal to my mother all these years and not coming sooner.
With a loud thud the dough fell onto the table. The flour on the table flew in all directions and slowly swirled through the room. According to the set choreography, grandma took a step back and leaned forward. With both hands she kneaded the dough until it became smooth allowing it to form a brick shape.
Now the rolling out of the dough could begin. The rolling pin moved slowly over the dough. First three short strokes back and forth. After which, in a fraction of a second, the dough was turned a quarter turn. Three short strokes back and forth again. This dance movement was repeated until the dough was rolled out so large that it covered half the table like a tablecloth. Grandma motioned me to get up. I stood next to her and watched her roll the rolling pin over the dough with even more forceful strokes. Her arched back and short arms handled the stretch of the growing dough across the table surprisingly well. With each deep stroke it almost seemed as if her upper body floated over the dough. As abruptly as the dance began, it ended. She took two steps back and looked at the result. Walking slowly around the table, the dough was carefully examined. Every now and then she stopped and pressed the dough with her thumb. Then she turned to me and nodded in agreement. Her chest took a slow inhale and with her exhale I noticed a sigh of contentment. It was ready.
The final dance began
The dough was folded carefully until a strip of 5 centimeters wide remained. Taking a knife at hand the dough was cut about half an inch thick. Instinctively I wanted to pick it up, but grandma stopped me with her hand. I was still a spectator. With a sweeping motion she picked up the piece of dough and dropped it. Strings fell apart on the table. In the next minutes piles of strings formed next to each other. Then she placed the knife on the table. Her eyes moved slowly across the table. Then she looked at me with a big smile.
It was the first time that day I heard my Grandma's excited voice:
‘Niente spaghetti! Famiglia tagliatelle!'
From now on, I wouldn't be a spectator anymore.
If you are a new reader, find out all about why I started writing short stories! Start reading my considerations on spoken and written language (part one) If you don’t want to miss out: