THE ETCHING OF SAN PARIDE
When my grandmother and my father
came to America,
they brought along an etching of
San Paride.
He was the patron saint of their town,
Teano, Italy.
Every August 5th,
when Dad announced “Today is
the feast of San Paride,”
we prepared to celebrate.
I can still see the sacrificial
eggplant as Mother
(Grandmother had retired from the kitchen)
prepared the meal,
slicing the eggplant into
wafer-thin slivers which were
fried crisp, drained
and placed in tomato gravy flavored
with grated parmesan and sweet basil.
An August day in Llanerch was hot as
an August day in Teano.
After Dad set up the fan in the
kitchen near Mother, he went to the State Store
a couple miles away
to buy wine, a white handkerchief
tied around his neck to catch his sweat.
He walked instead of driving his
bedraggled car.
Finally, we feasted, savoring that
delicious food, Grandmother widening her
eyes and saying, with an appreciative nod
in the direction of Mother, the cook,
“Ah! Saporita!”
All of us, including me, the youngest,
were giddy from wine, but not too giddy
to catch an occasional sigh from Grandmother
or to see her cast a glance toward that
etching she had carried over rough, wartime waters,
that detailed work of art,
that etching of San Paride that has
quietly outlived them all.
– Rosemary Cappello