CULTURE SHOCK by JoLynne Buehring

“You coma in.  Now.  Coma in.”   The barrel-shaped, grey-haired woman pushed open the screen door and fluttered the encompassing calico apron at her like shooing chickens.  Not waiting for the girl to introduce herself, the woman continued in a thick Old Country Italian accent.  “You lika da coffee, coma hava coffee.”  It wasn’t a question, but a command.

The thirteen year old girl entered the unfamiliar house with caution.  She followed the old woman through a living room crammed with furniture into a spacious kitchen, stammering, “I’m Red’s daughter, Sophie.” 

Before she could state the reason for her visit, her hostess gave a shrug, and said, “No matta.   You hava da coffee.”  She pushed Sophie to a chair.   She proceeded to pour two large mugs of steaming brew that looked as dark and thick as the motor oil her father drained from his semi engine when he serviced it. 

The woman led the way to a round table in the bay window at the end of the kitchen. “Sit, sit.  You looka lika gooda girl.  Here,” shoving a plate of cookies toward her, “for to go with da coffee.  A leetle meat on youra bones isa good.”

Every time Sophie opened her mouth to explain her errand, Mrs. Regina interrupted with a question Sophie didn’t get a chance to answer.  “Sophia gooda Italian name.  You look Irish, but no matta.  You live here long?  Where you come from?  Your momma, she cooka in da café?  She a gooda cook, musta be to do for money.  You have biga family?”

Sophie, always shy and quiet, decided to let the woman run down, and sat back to drink the brew pushed toward her.  She discovered it wasn’t too bad if she dunked the anise flavored cookies in it.

“You lika bambinos?  Youa nice sturdy girl, have lots of bambinos.  Healthy ones.”

Soon to be a sophomore in high school, that last thing Sophie was thinking of was having bambinos.  She liked to babysit, but was just beginning to feel an unfamiliar surge of interest in Roger Whitmore in her English class, or maybe that cute Jeff Simpson, the popular basketball player. 

Her father had sent Sophie to the Regina household to deliver an envelope of paperwork his boss, Mrs. Regina’s son-in-law, needed.  Dad had to leave on a long-distance haul and didn’t have time to take it the sixty miles to the main office.  “Mrs. Regina will see that Carlo gets the papers when the family comes on the weekend,” he told his daughter.

The envelope still resided in the back pocket of Sophie’s jeans, and she was just about to pull it out when Mrs. Regina gave another command.  “Go out inna garden and aska my son for some gooda fresh parsley.  He’sa workin’ outa there, outa beyond the wine barrels.  He geta for you.”

Sophie sputtered and would have protested, but Mrs. Regina had turned away and began banging pots on the stove, then sifting a heap of flour on a big farmhouse table.  Feeling overwhelmed by the woman’s forcefulness, and taught to respect her elders, Sophie did as she was told. 

She went through the back door out into the biggest garden she had ever seen.  Borders of marigolds and nasturtiums edged raised beds that held lush plants of all kinds of vegetables she paused to admire, some new to her.  She followed stepping-stones around what looked at first glance like a wishing well, but she noticed it had a screw device that wound down into the center.  That must be the winepress her father had talked about.  Mrs. Regina and her son made wine for the whole family.   Four big wooden barrels filled with water sat beside the shed, waiting for the grape harvest.  She knew many of her neighbors were soaking their wooden vats to tighten them in preparation for big trucks delivering grapes for annual wine-making.

After following the winding path around the winepress and storage shed, she saw a man with his back to her, hoeing a bed of climbing plants growing up around a teepee-like structure.  As she neared, she recognized the lush vines as what her grandmother called pole beans.

She timidly cleared her throat.  “Excuse me.”  The man, in jeans and a plaid shirt, jumped in surprise and turned awkwardly toward her.  He was a little bit younger than her parents, but had some grey in his whiskers that hadn’t seen a razor in a week or so.  He was thin, puny she thought.

 He scowled at her.  “What?”

Disturbed by his abrupt reaction, she had a hard time finding her voice, but finally gulped and managed to say, “Your mother told me to ask you for some parsley.  She said you would get it for me.”

He didn’t answer her, but limped back along the walk to a bed of herbs.  He muttered and she half heard, “… old woman … at it again.”  He thrust a handful of leafy parsley at her, failing to acknowledge her stuttered thanks.

She fled back to the house and stepped into the kitchen, now redolent with the aroma of garlic, onions, and cooking tomatoes.

Mrs. Regina did not look up from the table where she was rolling out pasta dough.  “I teacha to make ravioli, but first we have to testa the musharooms.  I picka myself, and I know whatsa good and whatsa not so good, but if we put in boiling water with fresha parsley, good ones, they keepa parsley green.  Bada ones, the parsley goes yellow.  Verra bad.”

This whole scene was so foreign to Sophie, she became intrigued.  She had no other plans for this summer day, except to get back to the final chapters of The Lord of the Flies.  She might as well learn what Mrs. Regina wanted to teach her.

They spent the next hour grinding meat, mixing it with chopped mushrooms, and finally pressing the pasta with a lattice-patterned rolling pin.  Mrs. Regina showed her how to put a small spoonful of filling into the center of the marked squares of dough. 

“Nowa cover the leetle pillows with pasta and tucka them in.  See, we pressa them down and cuta them.”  The woman ran a tiny wheeled cutter with a ruffled edge in between each of the mounds of filling.  “Later, we cooka them in sauce.  Itsa time for more coffee.  You learn to make gooda pasta, you maka gooda wife.”

Sophie loosened up enough to exclaim over these new experiences and to compliment Mrs. Regina on her garden.  As soon as she mentioned the garden, her hostess again took over the conversation. 

“You finda my son, Roberto?  He’sa gooda boy, so sad he losta his leg in da mine.  Thata coal mine dangerus place.  He gotta a pension, hasa money, but lika to work garden.  Maka best vino, too.   He get ‘round good with wooden leg.  He maka a gooda husbin, giva you lotsa bambinos.”

There was a long silence, what Sophie’s books called a pregnant pause, while it fully registered what Mrs. Regina had said.

The girl jumped to her feet, pulled the envelope out of her back pocket and slapped it on the table.  “I’ve got to go.  I forgot … it’s late, my mom …” she stammered as she ran out, the front door slamming behind her.  She didn’t stop running until she was completely out of sight of the house.

Her parents could not understand why she never wanted to go back to the Reginas’ house, even for a wonderful ravioli dinner.