Viva la Tavola di San Giuseppe

The story goes like this:  starving Sicilian children prayed to St. Joseph to send rain so the crops would grow, and he did.  Wheat, fava beans, and artichokes burgeoned from the drought-stricken ground that season to nourish the poorer families; the people prepared a feast then to honor the good saint on his day as a sign of devotion.  Parts of the celebration include inviting strangers to the table; no meat dishes as the day falls within the boundaries of Lent; no cheese either, for it was an unaffordable luxury; and an altar to be set up in three tiers representing the Holy Trinity.

A friend had been recipient of the religious cards and rosaries that I did not wish to merely discard, she accepted them with good will and as a part of her enduring faith that I had long ago broken away from.  To her, it is a form of contemplation and solace; to me, the Church had become a hypercritical, loathsome finger in the back of who does what to whom with permission.  I still can't sit in a pew without panic rising up to my throat.  Yeah, I know, take a pill.  Don't want to anymore.  You do it (no, don't).  Removing visible souvenirs of the parade of brocaded pomp helps keep me out of that vortex.  No lookee, no see-ee.  

She invited me to participate at her and her family's table and this is part of the gracious design that she weaves through her life.  She is a sprite, if ever there was a changeling from human to fairychild, it would have been this one, this earthbound human who has learned through trial and choice how to make life work, and work well.  Attentive to details, she inspires thoughtfulness as a conclusion of her own energetic curiosity and openness to possibility.  She reverberates as a plucked string does, her cavatinas travel in lateral waves; and if you pay attention, you will notice that her family and friends echo this sentiment many times over.

The beginning was a thick pasta in a lovely sardine tomato sauce, with fresh sardines having been grilled outdoors by the man of the house.  The flesh was wonderfully fishy, the bones crunchy, the blackened crispness spoke of a thousand charcoal fires ignited by a thousand years of history.  The tomato sauce was sweet and smoky, and topping it with the toasted bread crumbs made any Mediterranean angels hovering over the gathering wish for forks and bowls.  That was prima; secondo came the frittatas of spring vegetables, cabbage patties, crumbed and fried burdock, spinach casserole, something else that was breaded and fried in strips, and olives with crackers and a fava bean dip.  Terzo: honey balls and sfinge dressed in confectionary sugar.  Wine throughout and miraculous limoncello as an aperitif.  A stranger appeared, bearing candles: perfect.  He was pulled in and fed.  The gathering was fluid, happy, and overflowing with notions of becoming honorary Sicilians.

The moon finally broke through the layer of clouds just as I was leaving at 11 p.m., a punctuation of brilliant light at the end of a lovely gathering.  This was the perigee moon; by the time it had risen high up in the vault of heaven it seemed a normal size, yet the reflected light was more intense, luminous, and universally present.  Online photos have presented a compendium of size and splendor, and the sidewalks on the way to the car floated in moonlit phosphorescence.

Sweep closets, stack dishes; make dinner, lend a hand, light a candle, say a wish.  Be of service.  Take care of yourself, and by doing so you extend what you have for others.  Sleep well tonight, it is the first day of spring and the earth arises in green shoots and new feathers, blinky eyes are first opening, and mothers nest with their babies.  Isn't it wonderful?  You are too.  Welcome, come in.