From the time I was able to hold a fork, I was placed on ravioli duty.  A few times a year, mostly around holidays, ravioli making was a major event in our family.  My grandmother Elizabeth and my mother Rosa, both highly skilled and dedicated to preserving the tradition, supplied ravioli to every freezer in the immediate family. As the only daughter, and youngest of four children, I was the supplier in training. My participation in these events was mandatory.

Planning Ahead

Planning and preparation took time.  Rosa prepared a check list to ensure no stone was left unturned. In those days, we traveled from our home in Milwaukee to my grandparents’s home in Chicago which was considered ground zero for any major food preparation. As a result, it was important to ensure we had all the right tools for a seamless production. Likewise, we needed to pack a change of clothes as ravioli day was more like ravioli weekend.

The List

Rosa began by gathering and laundering white sheets. I can still see her hanging the sheets out on the clothes line to dry.  I watched, in awe, as she pulled the line taut and was able to hang the sheets without them ever touching the ground below. At five years old, this was a super human feat in my book. While sheets were drying, she set out to work on the freezer.

Gathering the ground meat, sausages, and neck bones, she placed them in the sink to thaw. Meanwhile, she gathered jars of home canned tomatoes and eggplant from the basement and placed them in a box. Once the meat was thawed, she made meatballs browning them along with the sausage and neck bones. The meat was then packaged for the trip. Likewise, she gathered extra rolling pins, spare cutting boards, and large mixing bowls in the event extra hands showed up to help. She was a master of efficiency, moving from task to task like a well rehearsed choreography. Finally, after all items were packed and ready to go, she wrapped my grandfather’s cheese grater in a dish towel and off we went.

Oddly, my grandfather’s cheese grater took up residence in our pantry.  I wondered why, if it belonged to him, did it reside with us.  I attributed it to his frequent weekend visits. Similarly, knowing how important the family food traditions were to my mother, I imagine he viewed our home as a place where it would not only be cherished, but used.  Nonetheless, we were the proud keepers of the cheese grater.

The Trip

My father drove while my mother ran through the plan for the weekend. Rosa had assignments for everybody. From preparing the main work area, to starting the sauce, she didn’t miss a beat.

My grandfather was in charge of preparing the work areas (on the dining room table, in this case).

Rosa was responsible spreading the freshly laundered sheets over any available beds. The beds were used as temporary ravioli storage as there was never enough table or counter space for all that we made.

I was in charge of dusting the sheets with a thin layer of flour.

Grandma would start the sauce. We always sampled our work at the end of the long day.

My father’s job was to stand by for any quick trips to the grocery store, if needed.

The Preparation

Upon arrival, we exchanged hugs with my grandparents and went straight to work. My grandfather unwrapped the cheese grater and secured it to the table. He placed a shallow bowl beneath it to catch the cheese. Next to his cheese grater was his chefs knife that was used to cut chunks of cheese for grating. To the right of the cheese grater, he prepared a board of his home cured sausages and home canned eggplant. Lastly, he poured a glass for himself and another for my father.

Grating cheese was an all day affair for my grandfather.  Alternating between grating and partaking of his personal antipasto, he was in his glory. Surrounded by things he made and people he loved, he was content. He had a deep understanding that he was sharing something special with his family. The pride of his homeland, his traditions, and the fruits of his labor oozed out of him.  Profoundly connected to a time and place so deeply embedded in his heart, he savored every moment.

While my grandmother added the meat to the sauce, Rosa floured the boards and the rolling pins. And finally, as if on cue, as the smell of the sauce permeated the dining room, the ravioli making commenced.

Let It Roll

Grandma was the reigning queen of the rolling pin. For the dough, she mixed flour, eggs and water. Her hands, twisted from arthritis, she still had the strength to knead dough like no other. When fully mixed and kneaded, she formed smaller balls, covering them with towels to rest.

While the dough rested, Rosa made the filling.  Like my grandmother, she followed no recipe. While I watched Rosa mix the filling, I learned many valuable lessons. As the years passed, Rosa would wait for my direction before adding the ingredients to the bowl. If I was right, she would proceed. If not, she waited. I learned to not only observe, but to use my instincts. At every step in the process, she stopped so I could understand texture. To this day, I always follow my instincts and I make adjustments, when needed. These life lessons have been invaluable to me.

The Assembly

My grandma’s mastery of the rolling pin turned out sheet after sheet of dough. She was fast. She rolled the dough to an almost perfect thickness and then rolled the dough around the pin, slapping and stretch it against the hard surface. The aromas emanating from the kitchen along with the anticipation of dinner, fueled our fire.  As each sheet of dough was stuffed and cut, it was my job to press the open sides with a fork to seal the dough.  When there were too many lined up for me to do on my own, my father and brothers would be called in to help.   

As we pressed the dough, my mother transported the ravioli to the bedrooms. Before long, the beds were filled with small pillows of ravioli.  It was a sight to behold. Tiny particles of flour, dancing in the rays of the sun, cast a soft glow on a sea of ravioli. Throughout the house, the aromas were intoxicating. These memories are still fresh in my mind.  My grandfather passed away when I was six years old, yet I remember this time in our lives vividly.

The Legacy

After both of my grandparents passed away, my mother and I made sure to keep the tradition alive. We planned ahead, assembling any available hands to help. While the venue may have changed, the spirit remained the same. My mother was now the dough master, while I was in charge of the filling. My father took over preparing the antipasto, checking in on us here and there to make sure we weren’t in need of anything. Two of my nephews, living nearby, often helped enjoying the little rituals that carried us through the day. One would grate cheese, while the other learned to roll dough. There was an excitement in the air, especially for my mother, knowing a new generation was willing and able to not only learn, but carry it on.

Their Presence

Three years ago, after my mother passed away, I struggled with thoughts about whether I would make ravioli for Christmas. Months had passed, since her death, and I had just moved into a new home. It was time, not only to baptize the new kitchen, but to get through another phase of my grief. While I made ravioli on my own before, it was the first time I would be making them without her presence in the world.

In lieu of floured bed sheets, I arranged fresh kitchen towels along the island. I gathered my grandma’s old mixing bowl, my grandpa’s rolling pin, the cheese grater, and a bottle of wine. As I started to mix the dough, I was flooded with grief.  It was the first time in fifty three years that I would be making ravioli without some physical connection to Rosa.  I couldn’t call her. I couldn’t share the experience with her in any way. That thought shattered me.

Not only did we keep a family tradition alive, but we did it with reverence. My tear drops stained the dough. As I worked through the grief, I could hear her in my head. As I became more focused, I moved from task to task. Within a few hours, my counter was covered with freshly made ravioli. That day, I played the role of my grandmother, rolling the dough with artistry. I was my grandfather, filled with pride and reverence to be carrying on an important tradition. I was my father, proudly observing. Lastly, I was my mother, her words and life lessons swirling around in my head.

The Gift

Today, whenever I am in the kitchen their spirit continues to guide me. Their presence is palpable.  The greatest gift for me is knowing they are just a thought away. While I was overtaken by grief that first time, I was led by my mothers voice to get through it. That, to me, is a gift and I couldn’t be more thankful.

I realize how lucky I am to have had these experiences. I’ve shared them with friends and family and will continue to share them as I know how important it is to carry them forward. There are times, when I don’t realize how special these times were until I share them with others. If I could give them a small dose of how it was in those early days, I’ve done my work.