The Blessings of Ravioli

The ravioli lay on floured

pillow cases on your dining room table

looking like stuffed pillows

themselves —

the dough kneaded smooth,

then rolled to the right thickness,

the spinach and ricotta filling

dropped like clusters of

snow-crusted grass

onto the naked strips of pasta,

plumped into fullness

with a quick fold of the dough,

the corners tucked in place with the

pinch of a fork.

Your hands move in a holy rhythm.

You anoint the ravioli with

flour to prevent them from drying out.

White halos the arch of your cheekbone as

you laugh and sprinkle, saying,

“Bless these ravioli,” like some Italian nun.

I laugh, too,

reminded of my Catholic grade school days.

I wish we had known each other then.

We could have draped our little girl bodies

in my grandmother’s

gaudy red and yellow aprons

and watched her wrinkled fingers press each ravioli

into perfect form.

“The secret’s in the touch,” she told me.

Life is full of such holy mysteries.

How could I have known

the blessings of ravioli

passed from Grandma’s hands

to mine, and now to yours.

I touch your floured fingertips

and smile.

There is grace here

and beauty beyond words.

©1993, Mary Saracino

Originally published in Writers Who Cook, Herringbone Press (Minneapolis: 1993).