Paper #3
Julie Hamilton
"Do you want me to make the dough ahead of time?" It was my sister from Los Angeles on the phone with my daughter in Eugene. They were planning the upcoming Thanksgiving meal that takes place each year at my mother's in Salem.
"No, we'll do that after you arrive," I heard my daughter respond, "but bring your handle to the pasta roller, Mom can't find ours."
"Wait!" I hollered from the loft, "Does Grandma know to get the ground pork in Portland so we don't end up with that greasy, fat slab we had last year?"
"Yes," my sister answered me through my daughter, "but someone needs to call Kelly (my other sister in Santa Barbara) and tell her to bring some of that tomato paste she found at Mama Rosa's." Relief settles upon us all. We have, once again, successfully navigated through the "pre-feast" stage, or more aptly called the "Don't forget? stage", where you find yourself thinking about things like handles to pasta rollers in the middle of a math lesson. This stage, however, should not be underestimated. It is the first, in a series of interactions that binds my family together in preparation for the Thanksgiving ravioli celebration. That's right, raviolis: large, plump, tasty, meaty, handsome raviolis. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I think there are few who can truthfully say that cooking and eating a turkey evokes the kind of memories my family experiences through our inherited legacy of the ravioli. As my daughter continues in her conversation, I pause and think of how natural it seems. We celebrate in this way because, as strange as it may sound, raviolis are the physical representation of the unseen ties that bind us so closely.
My Irish grandmother learned many cooking secrets from her Italian mother-in-law, one being a fat, filling, and delicious ravioli. Her husband (my grandfather) died when my mother was 13. It was at this point that the legacy truly began. However, there was still much to learn to be added to the recipe. And as fate would have it, there was an able body and soul willing to learn it. My grandmother was no stranger to hard work and difficult times. Her father's early death and her mother's subsequent alcoholism made her a ward of the court at the ripe old age of six years old. Passed between an orphanage and convent for the next 8 years, she knew little of what family meant. The large, close-knit, Italian family she married into offered her a beautiful definition of this. But, if the story ended here, the ravioli legacy would be nothing more than a good recipe and fond memories.
The death of her husband left my grandmother alone with a child to rear and a recently purchased onion farm, with a hefty debt attached to it. The hardships she and my mother endured after my grandfather's death could fill volumes. The stories of a woman and girl farming the land alone in the 40's and 50's and learning to fight for a fair market price to reduce their debt left an indelible mark on the minds of their future heirs, my sisters and I. It created a matriarchal framework for us that now makes some modern notions of feminism almost humorous. There was a time they speak of when the two of them stood completely alone. Ostracized by the community and passed over by the buyers when they were discovered to have been active in the resistance to sending local Japanese to the internment camps. They suffered greatly for this, but their passion for independence adds a delectable taste to every bite of the ravioli we now eat.
My grandmother persevered during this very difficult time and eventually became a well-respected farmer. My mother, in turn, brought three daughters into the world to claim their rightful place at the feast. Tradition remained in tact and "the farm" continued to be the gathering place for family and food every Thanksgiving Day. As a child, I can remember the crowd, the smells, and my aching arm from turning the handle on the pasta roller. My cousins lived far away, so this was the only time I saw them. I rarely see them at all now. My memories of them are intertwined with raviolis.
Time seemed to sail forward until next I knew, I was standing beside my own daughter as she turned the handle on the pasta roller. My Grandmother, guided by her keen sense of smell, could tell how we were progressing and would throw out suggestions whenever she deemed necessary. She was invariably correct. The size of our 'clan' had diminished, but my aging grandmother knew by the small, young hand turning the handle that the tradition would continue and the legacy would be passed on.
My daughter's voice pulled me back to the moment at hand, "Mom, it's all good. I'm going out now, I'll see you later." At 20 years old, my daughter now helps orchestrate the event and contributes largely to making the raviolis. Fate blessed me with a 6'4" son who can reach the boxes shoved to the back of the pantry where enormous pots and ravioli tins wait for us to fill them. My nieces from Los Angeles turn the handle on the pasta roller and my grandmother, no longer with us in person, gathers with us in spirit. The family is growing again. We all agree that the raviolis seem to taste better with each passing year.