Under a Sardinian Sky. Sara Alexander
it, pulped into passata. Carmela cranked the handle a few more times to squeeze the final tomatoes into the bowl.
“Daydreaming again?” Piera piped. “Or do you like burned garlic?”
Carmela snatched the skillet off the flame and poured in the diced vegetables, trying to brush away the pique of irritation. She took a deeper breath. Their aroma was sweet and earthy, unchanged from her earliest memories of dancing around the hem of her mother’s apron. Others found peace in the chilled silence of church. For Carmela, it was in the kitchen. The excitement of today, the short-tempered mood of her sister, would give way to an inner peace. To prepare a meal with success required the cook to devote her complete attention to it—mental, physical, and emotional. It was a well-known fact among the Simiuns that an angry, distracted, or lazy cook produced only bitter food.
The sisters’ culinary duet was well oiled. If Carmela was a little late, though, like today, it took a few dishes before Piera would settle back into their combined rhythm.
“Hard day?” Carmela asked, stirring the trittata so that the olive oil glazed all the small pieces evenly.
“While you were dreaming up dresses, I had to shunt in and out of town like a donkey. Nonna was on fire all day.”
“I heard. Vittoria came running past the studio today, flapping like she’d been stung.”
“When Zia Rosa finally got home, she bossed me around like a slave. Never been happier to get to work, I tell you.”
They slipped into a familiar silence. Carmela let the vegetables soften before adding the tomatoes. She sprinkled a small spoonful of sugar over them, a pinch of saporita—a blend of nutmeg, paprika, and cumin—and then reduced the heat to let the sauce thicken.
“You know that woman from Pattada came again the other day,” Carmela began. “There are some off cuts enough for me to make you a new summer dress.”
Piera pummeled the dough as if it were an old enemy. “Pass me the spinach.”
Carmela grabbed the woolen potholders and lifted the skillet off the stove, then picked up another chopping board—a slice of an olive tree trunk—and placed it underneath. Before Piera could ask her, she moved to the wooden icebox and grabbed a slab of salted ricotta. She sliced a generous amount and crumbled it into the warm spinach. Then she threw a pinch of salt and ground some pepper into the mixture. With two teaspoons she carefully cupped small balls of green and placed them at even spaces along the rolled-out dough.
“I look ridiculous in those dresses—like a boy in a skirt.”
“Not when I make them, you don’t. Smells delicious, Piera,” Carmela said.
Piera lifted the second pasta dough sheet and laid it like a blanket over the balls of spinach and ricotta.
“Here.” Carmela took the wooden wheel out of Piera’s hand. “I’ll finish. You won’t cut straight if you’re thinking about Nonna.” She rolled the serrated wheel along the length of the pasta and then along the widths, cutting out perfect parcels of ravioli. Then she dusted them with flour and placed them on a tray.
“Did you see your poster?” Piera asked, brightening at last.
“Almost,” Carmela replied, wishing the image of that tired plate of cheese and lard didn’t flash in her mind, or the coolness in Franco’s eyes as they kissed good-bye. “We didn’t stop for lunch today.”
“It’s nearly six,” Piera said, brushing down her apron. “You know they eat early.”
Carmela never paid much mind to the usual time Simiuns ate their dinner before she worked for the Curwins. Few were the Simiun families who dined before nine o’clock, and it certainly would not include pasta. At home, Carmela and her siblings would be lucky to get more than a cup of warm milk and bread. Feasting at night was deemed gluttonous excess, particularly in their household, an indulgence reserved for special occasions only, like Christmas Eve.
Carmela lifted the loaded tray to the stove and gently dropped each parcel into a deep pan of boiling water. The ravioli bobbed as if reluctant swimmers gasping for air.
“Ladies, that smells absolutely divine!” Mrs. Curwin said as she sashayed into the kitchen wearing a two-piece swimsuit in a tropical flower print, a halter-neck bikini top, and tight shorts to match. An oversize white linen shirt hung over her bronzed shoulders. “I’ve been taking in the last rays on the back terrace. It’s glorious at this time.”
She reached into the icebox and removed a jug of water with sliced lemons floating inside. She poured herself a drink. “I think we’ll eat out there this evening, Signorine.”
“Of course, Signora,” Carmela answered, as Mrs. Curwin floated out of the room to change for dinner.
Piera scooped the ravioli out of the pan. She layered them gently on a wide, flat dish, spooning sauce in between as she went. When all the pasta was on the dish, she grated a generous amount of pecorino over the top. It oozed into the hot sauce. Before she placed the cheese back into the icebox, she pulled off a tiny hunk to nibble.
“I saw that,” Carmela said.
Piera grinned.
The sisters filled another bowl with paper-thin slices from a fresh fennel bulb and narrow wedges of orange. They squeezed the remaining juice from the inside of the orange peels into the bowl and sprinkled salt and freshly ground pepper over the top. With a generous splash of olive oil, the salad was complete. They tore some pane fino and placed it in a basket, then topped it with a few sheets of pane carusau, thin sheets of crisp bread they had warmed in the oven and drizzled with olive oil, a little salt, and some fresh rosemary. A carafe was filled with their father’s wine. They laid two large, wooden trays with all the dishes and carried everything outside.
The terrace at the back of the villa was paved with large terracotta tiles, framed with a delicate marine mosaic of waves and fishes. Overhead, passiflora and clematis wove a thick, fragrant canopy. Piera and Carmela took out a linen tablecloth, four plates, and four heavy green glasses from the wooden sideboard that stood against the wall of the house and laid the table with them. On each plate they positioned a rolled linen napkin wrapped around a knife, spoon, and fork. A thin bottle of dark green olive oil, a small pot of grated pecorino, and a pepper mill were placed in the center of the table, along with all the plates of food and breads. On top of the sideboard was a basket of velveteen peaches and purple-green plums, for after dinner.
Mr. Curwin came out first, holding a glass of cold, white vermentino, a book tucked under his arm. “Buona sera, ladies, this looks wonderful.” He pulled his linen trousers up an inch as he took his seat and then he straightened his collar. His skin was not as bronzed as his wife’s. Mr. Curwin preferred the cool of the shade in which to read historical accounts or biographies to the dazzling rays in which his wife and children basked. His eyes were small and light brown, bright with an intelligence he reserved for well-timed, dry quips. The boys raced up from the back of the garden, where they had been playing around the lemon and fig trees, and hopped into their respective seats.
“Hands, boys,” Mr. Curwin said. They marched inside.
Mrs. Curwin made her entrance in a simple, yellow cotton crossover dress that was tied in a bow at the back. It showed off her sun-kissed skin. A cluster of citrine sparkled in each ear. “How we will ever go back to English food escapes me, Marito, really.”
“Yes, you remind me every time we come, dear,” he replied, reaching forward to snap off a crisp of pane carusau.
“Then take my advice and buy these girls plane tickets!” She smiled, half joking.
Carmela imagined Franco’s expression if she were to tell him she had packed for a London life. Her mind flew back to the time an uncle had asked her whether she would accompany him on one of his salesman’s trips to the south of the island. He had been trying to earn commission on the sale of sewing equipment and told Carmela she would be the best person to demonstrate