Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop by Rosanna Chiofalo Page B

was also All Saints’ Day—a church holiday that honored all the saints. The weeks leading up to this religious holiday were among the busiest for the convent’s pastry shop. Though the nuns and other workers had been preparing for a month, they were still baking and decorating marzipan and Ossa dei Morti —Bones of the Dead cookies made to resemble bones. These cookies were consumed every year on November 2nd for All Souls’ Day, which was tomorrow. Both the marzipan and the bone-shaped cookies had been selling out. For the past two weeks, long lines of customers had waited to purchase the brightly colored, realistic-looking marzipan fruit and the white, hard bone-shaped cookies.
    While marzipan was one of the pastry shop’s most popular sweets and was sold throughout the year, the demand for it soared in late autumn. On November 2nd, All Souls’ Day, children in Sicily woke up to find baskets containing marzipan, pupi di zucchero —or sugar dolls—and other toys and treats. The baskets were supposed to be gifts from their ancestors who had passed away. On the afternoon of All Souls’ Day, families descended upon cemeteries with picnics and flowers to celebrate the memory of their loved ones who had passed on.
    Rosalia’s parents had also taken part in this long-held Sicilian custom, but they had never been able to afford a basket for each of the three children or the marzipan fruit that was sold at their local pastry shop. Instead, they prepared one large basket containing apples or pears, and her mother made her simple Taralli cookies that were more savory than sweet and meant to be dipped in wine or coffee. Rosalia did not even know that the tradition was to add marzipan fruit to the baskets until Madre Carmela told her. The families of her school friends were poorer than hers, and many of the other children did not receive a basket on All Souls’ Day.
    Tears fell down her face. Rosalia lifted the apron tied to her waist to wipe her tears, but she didn’t notice that a teardrop had fallen onto one of the raw bone cookies that she had neatly lined up on a baking sheet. When she lowered the apron, her head suddenly began to throb. Closing her eyes, she rubbed her temples. A fuzzy image of a shop flashed before her. Customers were walking out of the shop holding hangers of men’s trousers or suits that looked as if they had been freshly pressed. The shop’s sign came into view, and she could make out the letters. They spelled “Sarto DiSanta.”
    Rosalia opened her eyes. “Sarto,” she said aloud to herself. Of course, her father was a tailor. That was his shop she had just seen in her mind. “Sarto DiSanta,” she whispered once more. Her heart raced. She remembered. DiSanta was her last name. Rosalia DiSanta. Yes, that was it!
    She ran out of the kitchen, much to the dismay of the nuns, who shouted after her, “Rosalia! Where are you going? We still have much work to do!”
    Running out into the corridor off the kitchen, Rosalia bumped hard into Sorella Domenica—one of the few nuns she still hadn’t met. But she had noticed her during the past few weeks in the kitchen. She always seemed to stay apart from the other nuns, and sometimes Rosalia caught her glowering in her direction. Then again, Sorella Domenica often had a scowl on her face. Rosalia had not given her much thought since she was always busy in the kitchen and focused on her work. She knew her name only because she’d heard the other nuns talking to her.
    â€œExcuse me,” Rosalia said in a low voice as she tried to hurry past Sorella Domenica. But the towering nun continued to block her path. At 5′11″, Sorella Domenica loomed over Rosalia’s petite frame.
    â€œExcuse me, Sister. You must always address me and the other nuns as ‘Sister,’ ” she said in a very harsh tone.
    Rosalia was taken aback by her demeanor. Until now, all