November 2004

Zia Giulia is not really my aunt, but that’s what I call her. Whenever I arrive at the portone of the palazzo and ring the bell, she buzzes me in and waits for me on the first landing, the warmth of her smile drawing me up the stairway and into her embrace. The ritual greeting unfolds, “How are you?” followed by, “How is your husband and family?” and then, of course, “How is my dear cousin Luisa?” She seems much younger than her 87 years, especially when we go for a walk up the hill and I try to match her fast pace!

I sit at her table, slice my still warm tigella in half lengthwise, and stuff it with any of the following: a made-to-order fried egg, a thin slice of salami, mortadella, or prosciutto crudo, and cheese, either bumpy wedges of Parmigiano Reggiano, a slice of dense typical Castel San Pietro, or a slather of fresh, wet, Squacquerone or pungent Stracchino. When I have no more room, I eat one more, perhaps with butter and a smear of thick local honey or fragrant strawberry jam. Meanwhile, I wash it all down with a glass of frizzy white wine from a neighboring cantina, aranciata (orange soda), or tè freddo alla pesca (peach-flavored iced tea). Follow up is a bowl of seasonal fruit -- shiny cherries, plump golden apricots, sweet strawberries, or in autumn, grapes fresh from the vine.

Our conversation always turns to “la Luisa,” Zia Giulia’s first cousin, and my friend in the States. Luisa is 99 years old and we met 14 years ago in an Italian class. They miss their visits of the past, when making the long journey was possible. Strong, intelligent women, and dolci (sweet), their hearts and souls connect no matter the distance.

I witness that connection when, after I have eaten and she hovers over me, urging “at least one more, go on,” I suggest that we call Luisa to chat. At first, she will say, “What time is it there now? Will she be awake?”

“Sì,” I respond, yes, it will be a perfect time. Zia Giulia stands in front of me, my cell phone at her ear, stunned that the voice of her cousin reaches even her little kitchen so far away. I watch her expression as the link clicks open: she listens, a little smile tickling the edges of her thin lips when she hears Luisa’s voice. “Sì, sì, yes,” she says, “I know it is so difficult to continue on when you can’t see and old age weighs you down.” Then she nods, listening to the excited voice of her cousin, who I imagine trying to recall the Italian words that mostly lie buried in her past. “Just remember to be strong. You know I am there beside you, dear Luisa,” she says, concern clouding her countenance as she sympathizes with her beloved cousin’s frustrations. I can also picture my friend Luisa’s dancing eyes as she cherishes Giulia’s every word and tries to put together the Italian phrases to respond -- and to remember, in her excitement, what it is she meant to ask the next time they speak.

Meanwhile, Zia Giulia, who moves between all the Castelli cousins, gathering affection and newsy tidbits as she spreads her own sweetness, shares the latest Italian family scuttlebutt. Their conversation ends with their sending bacioni to one another across continents and seas.

Always disappointed when the visit is over and I must be on my way, Zia Giulia accompanies me, her arm threaded through mine, as we walk slowly to the train stop. “When will you return, signora?” she asks, “I look forward to your next visit. Perhaps then we could walk up the hill to the little church at Panico together.” I assure her that I will return and a walk would be lovely, especially after my usual feast of tigelle. When the train lumbers in close to the platform, we embrace one last time, I climb onboard and wave goodbye, completely satisfied. She waves too, and I know, like me, she is already thinking about “next time.”