Easter in Pratomagno
Reporting from the back pew of Italian Easter mass, a perfect meal, and musings on incomplete states
As part of my lifelong commitment to faith-curious lay anthropology, Jason and I consulted an attachment sent in the WhatsApp group for the borgo and saw that Easter morning mass was offered in San Clemente at 9:45 this morning.
The kids were still asleep. We rekindled the fire in the hearth, had espresso and colomba, dressed, and drove down the hill. San Clemente is a little town we know because they hold an annual fundraiser featuring ribollita, grilled meat, red wine, and fresh watermelon for dessert. It is very well known in the area. The town sits in a gorge, very quiet, with the Fiume Ciuffena running through the cleft in the rock, so smooth it looks like concrete.
We parked and walked over the bridge and up the hill to the church. At the back was a huge fresco behind the altar of San Clemente himself, we guessed. In true Italian style, mass started late, but I was surprised to see thirty to forty people there, including one very loud baby that made everyone smile even though it was fussy and hungry. In a country that has plummeted to a negative birthrate, when just a century ago families of six to ten children were not unusual, it was clear that the Italian toddler was an Easter miracle worthy of his own celebration. There were people of all ages in the pews, not just grandparents, but plenty of people who looked over eighty and ninety as well.
The priest was a rotund, well-humored middle-aged man who carefully coached his diffuse choir on the songs for the introit and the mass itself. He gave a lovely homily about Easter and the fragile, incomplete states that precious things can exist in, and how God is always at work even if we don’t see it or realize it, followed by the usual Easter assurances that hope is never lost, even when it seems most lost.
They handed out missals at the beginning of the service so we were able to read along, but amusingly the hymnal had only the words, no sheet music. I wondered whether this is a commentary on the fact that no one can read sheet music, or whether it seems intimidating, or whether all these hymns and tunes are so well-known that there is simply no need to transcribe them. Jason received communion but I did not. The woman next to me sneezed and I told her “salute.”
It looked as though many of the people in the church come only once a year. It reminded me of the Catholic church on Shaw Island in the San Juan Islands, off the Washington state coast. I went on retreat once there in December 2002 and found island families come tumbling to worship in all manner of dress and casually-combed hair. Though mass started late, it lasted less than an hour, at which point they began to start blessing the Easter eggs. We hadn’t brought any giant chocolate eggs to be blessed, so we were among the first out, right after a lady who was on the fast track to start her vape again, perfumed clouds of vanilla cupcake twirling upward into the blue sky.
For Easter lunch, Jason had reserved a week ago at Sagonà, one of the small private restaurants that dot the hills around here, typically situated in a renovated and adapted large home in which a family may still reside. They source ingredients locally, and reservations are a must because they plan the meals very precisely, especially around a holiday menu. We first dined here eight years ago, when we were new to the region, because Jason’s friend Simone was managing an agriturismo just a stone’s throw away. Back then Victor and Eleanor were six and three, so we had engaged a sitter, a young woman we knew well and trusted very much, to watch them while we drove to Sagonà and dined. I remember the service in 2018 was touchingly sedate and the menu excellent.
The restaurant is tucked into the cleft of the river gorge of the Ciuffena, just before San Clemente. The house was beautiful, with a terrazza, a young dog, and two mature orange cats in uneasy company with the dog. They had originally set us up to dine inside, but given the lovely weather immediately and happily offered to move us outside. We quickly consented.
They poured Jason and me each a glass of their white wine as an aperitivo. The antipasti began to parade out: fresh bread with their local olive oil; a tart of green vegetables with melted parmesan inside and a whole-grain crust; and cured anchovies in olive oil with chopped parsley and lemon. Eleanor got bored and quickly made friends with the dog and two cats. We ordered a bottle of their more robust red. I tasted, and it was as delicious a wine as as I remembered.
The primi arrived, beautiful cannelloni trios nestled into ragù and topped with béchamel sauce. Eleanor came back for those and devoured them. Then the secondi arrived: grilled lamb, roast beef, roasted potatoes, incredible artichokes, and the special fagioli zolfini, prized in the area, which look like little creamy pearls. Then a cheese course of pecorino fresco!
Dessert came in the form first of a semifreddo with Alchermes, ladyfingers, and chocolate mousse, then followed by a fresh Easter colomba with apricot and dark chocolate chunks, very much in vogue right now, and homemade meringues. Jason and I ordered espresso and we finished about three hours after we started, having enjoyed the beautiful fresh air, blue sky, and warmth of the sun, and energetic (and random, and comedic) conversation with our well-behaved kids, all within sight of the melting snowy crest of the Croce di Ferro.
I am thankful for all second chances, third and fourth chances, of all that has flowed into my life even when, in other years, I felt certain that all was lost, or important things lost or inattainable. All will arrive in its own time.
It was a perfect day.
Buona Pasqua, Monica. I can confirm that I never saw a missal with musicall sheet, only words. The songs are more or less the same in all the Catholic world, from South America to Soain to Italy, and the tune so simple you can't get it wrong. At least that's my experience as a former catholic that used to attend Mass in different countries.
Bonne Pâques! Oh how I adored every morsel of this. My vicarious enjoyment of a beautiful meal knows no bounds, but the description of the church goers took the cake.
I can so easily visualize this place, hear its morning and afternoon sounds, perhaps because I am so accustomed to rural southern Europe at this point.
Trust that I read your every word and my inclination to comment is omnipresent, but my attention span and follow through lag a moment and I’m swept up in daily doings until the next dispatch.
Not this morning. This morning I savor your words and send you a “salute” from this side of the Mediterranean. Thank you for your sharings of your life, Monica. J’adore.