Page 14 of Much Ado About Mistletoe
Mamma came from shock to life. “Verona needs to be fed.” Food was her solution to almost every problem, and not surprisingly she was always right.
But those of us in Casa Montague, who had been smelling the spit-turned chickens, the buttery pea pie, the extra-crispy pancetta to be served on ricotta gnocchi rich with mushroom and spinach and dribbled with our best olive oil, the garlic and onions roasted with rosemary sprigs, the fried chickpea and walnut fritters, the shiny purple eggplants stuffed with minced lamb and rice, the venison sausage and the breads and cheeses…
Deep breath.
Yes, dear reader, it wasn’t merely me who had a moment of greedy dismay, and the silence that fell was profound as the Montagues and the staff struggled with our thwarted love of feasts, wines and conviviality.
The silence was also brief.
Nurse said, “A blessing for us on this blessed day to serve the needy children, the holy brothers and sisters, and our brave citizens.”
“Well spoken, Nurse,” Mamma said.
We sprang into action.
Stoically Susanna took our boy-twins into her keeping, for we all knew a woman with child should not take the risk of attending a crisis, and the babes’ wet nurse remained with them.
Nurse organized our family and household staff, and while I prepared my medicine bag, they wrapped up our meal and our wines, blankets and an assortment of warm clothing.
We stepped onto the streets to find the men and carts had already gone to the orphanage, and even before we neared thePiazza dei Signori, we smelled smoke and heard shouting.
My gut wrenched as reality tightened its noose.
“The babies. The orphans.” Mamma’s whisper sounded loud in the street.
As if they’d been given explicit permission, Emilia and Cesario sprinted down the street and, despite our calls, disappeared inthe direction of the orphanage, located against Verona’s north wall.
We hurried faster, and when we arrived at thePiazza dei Signori, we found the goods of the Christmas market had been cleared away in what was obviously a mad flurry. A grim, calm Friar Laurence had begun the organization involved in the care and feeding of all: the displaced children, the workers, the monks and nuns, while the crowd milled about, wanting to help, needing direction. Cesario ran herd over eight toddlers who wandered, cried, laughed, stared wide-eyed at the chaos, and Imogene at once joined him. Here we were out of the way of the fire, and here we would set up our stations to feed, as Mamma wished, the city.
One other thing we Montagues enjoyed besides eating was feeding others in need. Using the now empty booths, Nurse ordered the placement of foods while Mamma efficiently organized her staff…which I found interesting since at home she was so addlepated I had taken over the household at an early age.
Huh.
A station was set up for the famished orphans, who had looked forward to their feast and now gave cries of delight at a selection of fancy foods they’d never seen, imagined or tasted.
Even before the dishes had been placed, a line of grim and sooty citizens formed a separate line for a meal. All had eating knives and spoons hooked to their belts, and many had wooden bowls. For those who did not, Nurse set her rough set of knife-wielding city-friends to making trenchers out of bread loaves. The trenchers served as plates and bowls for the meats, cheeses, grapes, stews.
I chose a booth off away from the bustle of food and drink, placed my herbs and ointments in an orderly fashion and dealt with a variety of injuries. Multiple minor burns, of course,not that anyone who had been burned thought it was minor. Speaking as someone who had suffered from many a cooking mishap, I sympathized completely; no wonder Beelzebub had chosen fire to punish the sinful.
One man limped toward me, sparking guffaws among his neighbors. He’d missed the handle of the full bucket swung toward him and he’d caught it with his man-parts.
I suggested he show Friar Laurence, whose stern hand and sharp eyes had brought order from chaos.
He agreed with a pained grin and cupped himself as he limped away in Friar Laurence’s direction.
Julia, ourpanettiera, had been whacked across the cheek with a wet broom used to douse the flames. “What I get for letting my man use a mop,” she groused.
I laughed, and she grinned awkwardly. “He doesn’t hit me, not on purpose,” she said. “Feels wormy about this, he does, but I’m going to have a black eye, and all the days of Christmas coming up, and I’ve made a new girdle!”
“You did a good deed, which makes you beautiful in his eyes.” I put a cool damp rag on her eye. “Where is your husband?”
She sighed as the pain eased. “Back at the orphanage, pouring water on the embers.”
I took a relieved breath. “The fire is out, then?”
“For the most part. The children will have to be housed elsewhere—”
I foresaw more blessings in our household.
