BAMBINA
One by one, the places, the characters and the events of her microcosm are unwrapped for the reader, as Eugenia’s ironic and tender voice tells a saga populated with gardeners, maids, cardinals, schoolmates and playboys.
What others say about Bambina:
Excerpt
Colette said that loss and distance ― ‘the tear’ was the creative impulse of her stories. I also write to clarify and sort out. In writing Bambina, I have tried to sort out the moods, colour and perfumes of what is called a happy childhood.
I wanted to give a high sheen to small events. In this chapter, for instance, Eugenia, one afternoon, is interrupted from her reading.
*
Menu for a Spring Luncheon
Jellied eggs Juliette
Lobster salad
Galantine of chicken
Bavarois à l’orange
‘Maria madre santissima!... What is this?’
Rosalina reads the menu Madam wrote for tomorrow and fidgets. She objects, first, from a philosophical point of view, because this stuff is not good, hearty family food, and also she is worried at having to do some difficult maneuvers, making jelly, finding lobster (Madam, would some nice scampi do as well?). As for strawberries, to decorate the dessert, there are none to be found, except, counted as rubies, and just as small, in tiny baskets of nothing at all, and so expensive. And for that she’ll have to send the chauffeur all the way to the deluxe shops of Via della Croce.
Here he comes, Alfredo the chauffeur, with sleek hair, greasy or dirty, it is not known. ‘When I went to Canada, over the sea, in those supermarkets’ (giving the word a personal flavor, he saw the really authentic ones), ‘they have the biggest red strawberries, in large baskets, super-baskets, all the time.’ ‘And now you’re going downtown, not to Canada, right away,’ says Rosalina flourishing downtown, the overseas of the maids and cooks, a place of prestige. She pushes towards him a coffee, as she is expected to. And Alfredo, as he is expected to, although affecting not to hurry, puts on his blue raincoat, meticulously tying the belt, checking the breast pocket where he keeps the car’s papers. On the landing of the service elevator, he can be heard whistling to himself ― what a malfeasant bantam cock! (Rosalina) In the garage, he smokes with abandon one of his Astor super-filters, then continues his protest by speeding all the way through Ponte Flaminio, the Olympic Village viaduct and Viale Tiziano, windows rolled down ― another victim of Madam’s lunch.
‘Eugenia, come here, you promised...’
Put my book face down, slowly follow Cook. I agreed to help deciphering the recipes for Rosalina, who reads slowly. This is the price to pay for building up my prestige, telling all those stories of restaurants and wedding lunches, and having given Rosalina fabulous accounts of white gowns and buffets. So I am an expert.
First, the apron! I have my own, green with a white trim, with a white and yellow embroidered little donkey with his cart. Aunt Valentina brought it back from Portugal.
Then solemnly washing hands at the big marble sink.
‘Eugenia, will you stop all your ceremonies?’
‘Repeat after me, Rosalina: “Vacherin”…’
‘What is this, a lesson in the tongues? You think I have time to waste?
Va-sce-rré’, she sighs.
‘Bavarois?’
‘Ba-varuah.’
‘Va bene, allora, it says: you need two large, fine oranges; two large sugar lumps.We begin. “Wash and dry the oranges. Rub the sugar lumps until they are impreg, impreg, im-pre-gnated with orange oil.” Mash the lumps in the bowl. Grate the orange rind into the bowl. Squeeze the juice.’ Now the gelatin and set aside. That’s it.’ The bowl goes in a corner of the grey marble table.
‘Now the crème anglaise ― Rosalina?’ I lift a finger like a singing teacher, waiting for a note.
‘Cremm anglé.’
‘It’s just a custard really, Rosalí, you know it, with seven yolks.’
Rosalina is gathering speed. It’s true, she can make a lovely custard. She cracks the eggs cleanly, catching the whites in an old enamel cup. She puts up a bain-marie, and airily turns the custard with a wooden spoon.
‘ “Mix the custard with the gelatin mixture. Beat egg whites until soft peaks are formed.” Dai, Rosalí, go.’ Rosalina has got into her stride; the whisk going in long and luscious strokes.
“Fold with the custard,” it says ―. Now make a Chantilly. What is a Chantilly?’
Rosalina has given up all resistance. She has the air of a bulldog captured by children and submitting to being dressed with an apron and a hair bow. The cream turns into a cloud.
‘Now, Rosalina, what you should really do is add a bit of orange liqueur, but please, please, can you not put it in? It gives me the goosebumps.’
‘You want the death of me, child! You know your mother…’
‘Oh, Rosalina… can I have some, tomorrow? And some cookies…?’
Rosalina sends me away with bread, butter and sugar.
Then she takes a little bowl, pours some of the custard in it, covers it with a saucer, puts it at the bottom of the Frigidaire. She pours liqueur on the rest of the bavarois. And a little glass for herself.
*
What others say about Bambina:
- “… a swirl of colour… A delicious entry into passion.” (The Globe and Mail)
- “Witty and fun… sharply observed detail… a strong appealing voice.” (The Montreal Gazette)
- “This is not your usual girl-meets-world tale. (…) The author is a master of the technique of presenting situations as they would appear to a precocious adolescent and yet the adult reader takes away something quite different. (Amazon.com)
- “A sparkling mind illuminates a colourful city and an intriguing adolescence.” (Tim Parks, Europa, An Italian Education)
- “As unique as it is enchanting. Eugenia, Francesca Piredda’s protagonist, is an astonishing creation.” (Patricia Young, Airstream)
- “…innocent and sly, cynical and enamoured, disenchanted and full of wonder, Eugenia takes us with her on her sentimental education’, a voyage as rich and varied as life itself.” (Gilbert Reid, So This is Love)
Excerpt
Colette said that loss and distance ― ‘the tear’ was the creative impulse of her stories. I also write to clarify and sort out. In writing Bambina, I have tried to sort out the moods, colour and perfumes of what is called a happy childhood.
I wanted to give a high sheen to small events. In this chapter, for instance, Eugenia, one afternoon, is interrupted from her reading.
*
Menu for a Spring Luncheon
Jellied eggs Juliette
Lobster salad
Galantine of chicken
Bavarois à l’orange
‘Maria madre santissima!... What is this?’
Rosalina reads the menu Madam wrote for tomorrow and fidgets. She objects, first, from a philosophical point of view, because this stuff is not good, hearty family food, and also she is worried at having to do some difficult maneuvers, making jelly, finding lobster (Madam, would some nice scampi do as well?). As for strawberries, to decorate the dessert, there are none to be found, except, counted as rubies, and just as small, in tiny baskets of nothing at all, and so expensive. And for that she’ll have to send the chauffeur all the way to the deluxe shops of Via della Croce.
Here he comes, Alfredo the chauffeur, with sleek hair, greasy or dirty, it is not known. ‘When I went to Canada, over the sea, in those supermarkets’ (giving the word a personal flavor, he saw the really authentic ones), ‘they have the biggest red strawberries, in large baskets, super-baskets, all the time.’ ‘And now you’re going downtown, not to Canada, right away,’ says Rosalina flourishing downtown, the overseas of the maids and cooks, a place of prestige. She pushes towards him a coffee, as she is expected to. And Alfredo, as he is expected to, although affecting not to hurry, puts on his blue raincoat, meticulously tying the belt, checking the breast pocket where he keeps the car’s papers. On the landing of the service elevator, he can be heard whistling to himself ― what a malfeasant bantam cock! (Rosalina) In the garage, he smokes with abandon one of his Astor super-filters, then continues his protest by speeding all the way through Ponte Flaminio, the Olympic Village viaduct and Viale Tiziano, windows rolled down ― another victim of Madam’s lunch.
‘Eugenia, come here, you promised...’
Put my book face down, slowly follow Cook. I agreed to help deciphering the recipes for Rosalina, who reads slowly. This is the price to pay for building up my prestige, telling all those stories of restaurants and wedding lunches, and having given Rosalina fabulous accounts of white gowns and buffets. So I am an expert.
First, the apron! I have my own, green with a white trim, with a white and yellow embroidered little donkey with his cart. Aunt Valentina brought it back from Portugal.
Then solemnly washing hands at the big marble sink.
‘Eugenia, will you stop all your ceremonies?’
‘Repeat after me, Rosalina: “Vacherin”…’
‘What is this, a lesson in the tongues? You think I have time to waste?
Va-sce-rré’, she sighs.
‘Bavarois?’
‘Ba-varuah.’
‘Va bene, allora, it says: you need two large, fine oranges; two large sugar lumps.We begin. “Wash and dry the oranges. Rub the sugar lumps until they are impreg, impreg, im-pre-gnated with orange oil.” Mash the lumps in the bowl. Grate the orange rind into the bowl. Squeeze the juice.’ Now the gelatin and set aside. That’s it.’ The bowl goes in a corner of the grey marble table.
‘Now the crème anglaise ― Rosalina?’ I lift a finger like a singing teacher, waiting for a note.
‘Cremm anglé.’
‘It’s just a custard really, Rosalí, you know it, with seven yolks.’
Rosalina is gathering speed. It’s true, she can make a lovely custard. She cracks the eggs cleanly, catching the whites in an old enamel cup. She puts up a bain-marie, and airily turns the custard with a wooden spoon.
‘ “Mix the custard with the gelatin mixture. Beat egg whites until soft peaks are formed.” Dai, Rosalí, go.’ Rosalina has got into her stride; the whisk going in long and luscious strokes.
“Fold with the custard,” it says ―. Now make a Chantilly. What is a Chantilly?’
Rosalina has given up all resistance. She has the air of a bulldog captured by children and submitting to being dressed with an apron and a hair bow. The cream turns into a cloud.
‘Now, Rosalina, what you should really do is add a bit of orange liqueur, but please, please, can you not put it in? It gives me the goosebumps.’
‘You want the death of me, child! You know your mother…’
‘Oh, Rosalina… can I have some, tomorrow? And some cookies…?’
Rosalina sends me away with bread, butter and sugar.
Then she takes a little bowl, pours some of the custard in it, covers it with a saucer, puts it at the bottom of the Frigidaire. She pours liqueur on the rest of the bavarois. And a little glass for herself.
*
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Photo credits: Pierluigi Piredda
Photo credits: Pierluigi Piredda