The Mimosa Tree by Antonella Preto Page A

who have already evolved the storyline to accommodate my sudden departure.
    â€˜You’re too old for that,’ she says tying an apron around my waist. ‘Time you learnt something useful.’
    â€˜Mum?’ I plead.
    â€˜Via is right. You’re old enough to help now.’
    The table jiggles as Mum turns the handle of the pasta machine, flattening a fist-sized ball of pasta thinner and thinner until the sheet is as long as her arm.
    â€˜Via, show her how to do the filling.’
    Via nods and thrusts her hands back into the mixture for a final stir. Mum lays a long sheet of pasta across the table and Via begins to lay down walnut-sized dollops of mixture, carefully explaining the desired distance, texture and shape. She does one entire sheet before another is ready and hands over to me.
    She licks her fingers as she watches me work. ‘Not bad,’ she says.
    â€˜Good girl,’ says Mum, and she has her dreamy face on.
    â€˜We learnt from our mother,’ says Via. ‘Just like you are now.’
    â€˜Dear God, what ravioli she made!’ says Mum.
    â€˜Yours are pretty good,’ I say but they both dismiss this instantly.
    â€˜Hers were the best,’ says Via.
    â€˜So this is the same recipe?’
    â€˜Of course,’ says Mum.
    â€˜Exactly the same,’ agrees Via.
    â€˜You ever thought about making it different?’
    Mum stops turning the handle of the pasta machine. ‘You don’t like my ravioli?’
    â€˜Of course I do. I’m just wondering if you can make other types.’
    â€˜Types?’ says Via, beginning on another sheet. ‘Ravioli is ravioli. What are you talking about?’
    â€˜But surely there are other fillings you could try?’
    â€˜Oh sure, but this is the best.’
    â€˜Delicious,’ agrees Mum and tries to force more mixture into my mouth.
    â€˜Don’t you want to try something different? Just to see what it’s like?’
    â€˜I like spinach and ricotta,’ says Mum.
    â€˜But you could be missing something really good.’
    â€˜These are really good,’ says Via. ‘Now look, this is how we finish them.’
    She dips her finger in a glass of water and wets the spacesbetween the rows of filling. She picks up a fresh sheet of pasta, lays it carefully over the top, then she starts pressing it down firmly around the raised areas of filling so that they stick up like little pillows. ‘But don’t leave any air in there!’ she warns.
    Next she runs a cutter along the pressed bits, and it separates the rows of ravioli from each other with neat serrated edges.
    â€˜Great,’ I say, actually happy to see the little pillows finally take shape before me. I go to take another sheet from Mum but Via slaps my hand away.
    â€˜Oh no you don’t, that’s my job darling. This is your job,’ she says handing me a plate. ‘As I finish a sheet you pick each one up, one at a time. Don’t let them touch or they will stick and I will kill you, and you take them over there to dry.’ She motions to the flyscreens on stands. ‘I want nice, neat rows, understand? We have to count them.’
    â€˜Oh come on! I want to make little pillows.’
    â€˜Listen to your aunty,’ says Mum. ‘Making ravioli is not all fun and games you know. Now hurry up. I need more room.’
    â€˜This sucks,’ I say, but I’m picking up ravioli already and they have started on a new conversation. There is never any point arguing with them. By the time I have the first plate on the drying rack, Via has another three sheets waiting for me.
    â€˜You’re going too fast,’ I say.
    â€˜You’re going too slow,’ says Via.
    â€˜This is going to take all day,’ I moan. ‘How many do we have to make?’
    â€˜Three hundred,’ says Mum pinching my cheeks.
    â€˜ Four hundred,’ says Via.
    And they both laugh like it’s the