The Garlic War

The Garlic War

By J.C. Roland

Anna Signorelli's kitchen was large and warm, like herself. From both
emanated the same robust generosity, and the vitality of Anna's spirit
could be savoured in the zest of her cooking. Some artists pour their
souls into poignant music, or the play of light and shade on canvas.
For Anna, food was the medium of her masterpieces, and to observe her
as she cooked was to see a creative genius at work.

As she darted from chopping board to mixing bowl or bubbling pot, the
white apron cinched around her plump waist was itself a palette, dotted
with dabs of golden butter or crimson sauce.

Half a dozen sleek cats of assorted colours watched and waited as Anna
bent meditatively over the steaming saucepans, sipped from a wooden
spoon and considered. If the brasato al Barolo or the chicken
cacciatore passed her rigorous test, she would rumble, "Here cats.
She's good, no?", and fling down a pungent tidbit.

She always spoke to the cats when she was alone, and she was alone
often. Yet, though she had been a widow for twenty years, Anna did not
brood over misfortune or feel sorry for herself. She was too caught up
in living and making plans - for herself and others - to be lonely. At
first, she had divided her time among the kitchen garden, her recipes
and Sophia, her only child. Now, with Sophia married (and about time!)
to an English doctor, Anna had only her cooking and her cats - at least
until the newlyweds moved in with her.

But perhaps that wasn't quite true. After all, Anna also had her
friends in the village. When the postman or the milkman popped in,
"just for a moment, Anna; only a moment, really," she would press them
to sample her sweet rolls, warm from the oven, dripping with honey from
her own bees. Or she would urge them to have a sip, merely a few spoons
of minestrone, for how else could they survive all the work they had
yet to do?

Grown men, they would bask in her kindness, like puppies stretching
themselves along a sunny doorstep. And when, for the fourth time, they
had pointed weakly at their watches, Anna would draw from them one
final tantalising piece of gossip and then send them on their way,
trailing crumbs.

Then, too, there were the children. As soon as school was out, a steady
stream of rosy faces appeared at her back door. "Hello Aunty Anna. How
are you? Can I have a cake?" So, for a few hours, her kitchen would be
filled with chatter and laughter. While the little ones played with her
cats and stuffed themselves with dolci di mandola, Anna hummed to
herself, vigorously sudsing the dishes. She remembered Sophia's
childhood - too soon gone - and imagined her future grandchildren,
whose lusty shouts would one day echo through the house. Ah, how
glorious that would be.

It was on a Friday evening, while she was mincing a clove of garlic
over the salad, that she heard a car in the drive. Anna dropped the
knife, peeled off her well-anointed apron and straightened her hair.
Standing by the front door, jiggling excitedly from foot to foot, it
was all she could do to restrain herself from rushing outside and
gathering the newlyweds to her bosom. But that would never do! Sophia
had reminded her that the English did not welcome such effusive
emotion, and that Mama would embarrass them both if she did not respect
the ways of this new "man of the house".

Ah, there they were at last: Doctor and Mrs. Herbert Chatt. Such a
strange, brittle name, thought Anna; like a snapping twig. Pity Sophia
couldn't have found a nice Italian boy. "Bambina," cooed Anna, kissing
her daughter's cheek; it glowed with rosy, honeymoon radiance. But, oh
dear. Herbert looked so pale and thin. Such a long face! Never mind;
she would fatten him up soon enough.

She began right away, urging them into their chairs at the table.
Before them she set an earthenware crock of fragrant mussel soup. Then
zucchini in ambrosial pomodoro sauce; platters of fettucine smothered
in baby clams and garlic; chicken stuffed with wild mushrooms and
speckled with pepper and rosemary. There was a basket of aromatic
garlic bread and a pot of homemade cream cheese, a piquant salad, and,
to wash it all down, two bottles of warming Valpolicella. All day, Anna
had been performing culinary miracles. Now, like the Lord on the
seventh day, she rested, waiting for her new son-in-law's praise.

But what was this? The young doctor merely waved his frail hand
impatiently through the billows of savoury steam and coughed. "Mother
Signorelli. I regret that I cannot eat this. I will just have a
sandwich, if you please. I can't have my patients leaving my practice
because I reek of garlic now, can I? So no more garlic in future.
Agreed?"

Anna clutched her heart and gave an involuntary cry. What!? No garlic?
But garlic was the mainstay, the essence, the very soul of her cooking.
All her life, she had elevated the sleeping songs of her food into
arias with those crisp, crescent cloves. And now this tight-lipped
little man, with a body like knotted string was telling her to stop?
Impossible!

Of course, she said none of this. She knew that men can be stubborn, as
well as foolish. So she wheedled and cajoled. Surely, as a learned
doctor, he must be aware of the medicinal properties and powers of
garlic? Why, it killed germs and purified the blood. And with a clove
tied around one's neck, beneath one's underlinen, there was no danger
of catching a cold. And wasn't it true that garlic bound under the
springs of the nuptial bed would assure that the first born would be a
son?

Having satisfied himself that Anna was quite finished, Herbert replied
quietly but firmly, " Mrs. Signorelli, please. I assure you, I don't
mind what you eat; I respect your traditions. But I have my patients
and our livelihood to consider. As for Sophia, as my wife, she will be
expected to participate in various community activities, and will no
doubt wish to entertain other wives at coffee mornings. So it won't do
for her to stink of garlic either."
Herbert shook his finger as he spoke, and Anna did not like fingers
shaken at her. Somehow, she swallowed her indignation, but doing so
robbed her of her appetite.

Doctor Chatt ate his bland cheese sandwiches in triumph that night, for
he thought he had won. He never suspected that this was only the first,
minor skirmish of The Garlic War.

For a fortnight, Anna banished garlic from her kitchen. The rope of
bulbs which had hung from the beam was gone; the glistening jars of
pickled garlic and homemade pesto vanished. Even the rich aroma that
had long dwelt in the very walls began to fade. In its place, a
disagreeable odour of chemical cleansers invaded; the kitchen assumed
the clinical coldness of an operating theatre.

Mama Signorelli withdrew her forces and began to plot a strategy.
Mustering her cats and her condiments, she continued to cook for
herself on a gas ring in her bedroom. She maintained, with grave
dignity, that while she would prepare Herbert's insipid meals, she
would never deign to eat them.

Behind her dark veneered door, she cursed Herbert softly to the cats.
"What kind of man is this my Sophia brings into my house? A scrawny
chicken without any blood, without even the sense to know what his
belly wants. Grandsons from that!? Never. Not till we learn him some
things, eh, cats?" She laughed. They were good listeners, those cats,
with their golden eyes and garlicky purrs.

As for Herbert (and alas, poor Sophia also), for fourteen nights he ate
his pale pork chop, boiled potatoes and lettuce with no dressing, while
Anna stood by, watching. At first, he ate with gusto. But toward the
eighth or ninth day, his enthusiasm was obviously only for Anna's
benefit. He began to dread dinnertime, and to make excuses to stay late
at the surgery.

On the fifteenth day, Anna took a plump tomato into her room. She
sliced it very thinly and rubbed each slice on one side only with an
uncut clove of garlic. There was so little enhancement that even a
trained palate could hardly have detected the forbidden taste.

That night, Herbert sat down rather glumly; but when he spied the
tomato, his face lit up with fresh interest. "Aha! A little change, eh,
Mother?" He gobbled the tomato, leaving only one slice for poor Sophia,
who was looking rather wan. It pained Anna to see her healthy,
vivacious girl fading like a shadow. But if this house was ever to be a
real home, certain things had to be done. This was war, and Anna knew
her duty.

Three nights later, she took four wild mushrooms into her bedroom,
minced an eighth of a clove of garlic into melted butter and brushed
the gills of the funghi sparingly, before grilling them. That evening,
there was nothing at all left for Sophia. "Wonderful, Mother," said
Herbert, patting Anna's arm. "Your cooking has improved since we
settled that unfortunate matter of the you-know-what." Mama Signorelli
thanked her son-in-law, cleared the plates away and winked at the
cats.

For five more nights, she served chops, tomatoes, lettuce and
mushrooms, but each time, with a whisper more garlic, a tiny, new gloss
of balsamic vinegar , olive oil or pepper. Each increase was so
gradual, so subtle that Herbert apparently never noticed. Atom by atom,
with infinite care and patience, Anna reintroduced her spicy,
scintillating flavours.

The change in Herbert was amazing. With each passing week, his appetite
increased. So did his weight. His white shirts became miraculously too
tight around the collar. "You must be washing them on too high a
temperature," Herbert chided, and began to wear his collars open.
Strangely, his waistcoats, too, seemed unable to stretch around his
increasingly ample girth. Anna said nothing, but she dropped a smirking
glance at Sophia, when he brought her burst buttons to be
re-sewn.

But the secret powers of Anna's cuisine did far more. They transformed
a dour, censorious doctor into a happy man. Health flushed his face and
light danced in his eyes. His voice rang with a hale-fellow-well-met
heartiness and a lively anecdote slipped often from his tongue. What if
a few puritanical patients had drifted away to doctors with more
circumspect habits? Plenty more came in their place, delighted to be
treated by such a jolly, approachable chap.

At last, the evening of the final battle arrived. It was time to risk
everything. With some trepidation, Anna placed before her son-in-law a
large platter of succulent manicotti, redolent with luscious sauce and
a blizzard of parmesan. This was The Moment of Truth.

Sophia's lip quivered a little as she caught her mother's eye. But Anna
did not quail. She stood, fists planted on her ample hips, immovable
and determined. If the explosion was coming, then let it come.

The women watched Herbert's hand moving methodically from plate to
mouth to plate again. Lord in heaven, was he blind? Didn't he see
the
shrapnel of rosemary, the black powder of the pepper? Couldn't he taste
the incendiary garlic? Sophia squirmed.

If Herbert knew that he was the central figure in a compelling drama,
he gave no sign. But was he saving the final salvo until the end? Was
fury seething just out of sight? Laying down his fork on the empty
dish, the doctor said quietly, "I have something to say."

Herbert rose to his feet and strode across the kitchen. There was no
warning, no time to step back. "Mama Signorelli!" he boomed, and seized
her by the shoulders. Then, scooping his mother-in-law into his arms,
he planted a breathtaking kiss on each of her cheeks. "Mama, you're a
wonderful cook!"

And that's the way Anna Signorelli fought and won The Garlic War.
Though, if you ask me, they all won - Mama, Herbert, Sophia?oh, yes -
and baby Angelo, who made his appearance not long after. I don't
suppose Herbert ever thought to check his bedsprings."

-the end-