On our first morning at Gabi, I pulled myself from the
peace of the balcony as the children's voices echoed in their bedroom. We would
need to supervise them closely until we eliminated potential hazards. Besides
worrying about their safety, I thought it would be ironic if the Italian
version of Child Protective Services had to pay us a professional visit.
I roused George from a sound sleep, and after he
helped me change the babies' cloth diapers, we piled them in the bathroom along
with their wet sheets and pajamas. Laundry was an adventure that could wait.
The
children were hungry, so we all headed to the kitchen to search for food. A check of the cupboards confirmed they were
empty except for salt and pepper. There was none of their usual cereal, and no
milk or eggs in the tiny refrigerator. Food shopping that day would be a top
priority. But we did find the salami, rolls, and cheese left over from our meal
the day before. Kneeling on chairs around the kitchen table, the children
turned up their noses at salami for breakfast. Next we pulled out the extra rolls
that had hardened overnight and cut them into chunks with pieces of parmesan
cheese. They nibbled at the cheese, and Paul declared it too salty. James
agreed, and copying their brothers, the twins rejected it too.
After a light dinner the night before I knew they had to eat something. I was about to force them all to choose between the cheese or salami when we heard a knock at the front door. George went downstairs to
answer it while Margaret and Matthew banged the hard rolls on the table,
laughing at the sounds they could make and scattering fine crumbs. When George returned
he carried an old battered saucepan half filled with milk. Zio Silvio had sent
it for the children, fresh from the cows.
George and I stared at the white liquid shimmering in
the saucepan. It looked like milk, but we’d never seen it fresh from a cow. I
dipped my finger to taste it and exclaimed, “It’s warm!” We looked at each
other for a split second, then laughed. Of course it would be warm. It wasn’t
from the refrigerator section of the supermarket; it was straight from a cow.
Then I remembered the sounds from the barn as I had stood on the balcony an
hour before, and I pictured Zio Silvio milking the cows in the barn, the same
barn from which wafted manure smells—a natural consequence of life on a farm. And
then I faced a dilemma.
We had moved to Italy for a simple life. What could be
simpler and more natural than milk, fresh from a cow? But as a twenty-four year old born and raised
in towns and cities, all the milk I had ever known was pasteurized,
homogenized, sanitized. Should I dare to give my children this fresh, raw
product? How could I make this badly needed, but potentially lethal, pan of
nourishment safe for them? George didn't know either. We were loath to ask his
uncle for fear of looking stupid, but we just couldn't bring ourselves to throw
it away.
Silent for once, the
children watched us. In front of them were the pieces of hard rolls that they
had tried to gnaw then discarded. Not wanting to put them off the milk, I
pretended everything was fine and had them feel its warmth, explaining where it
had come from. I hoped that Zio Silvio would let them watch him milking one
day. Since they were only eighteen months old, the twins weren’t much
impressed, and just babbled “Mulk, mulk,” but Paul and James seemed to
understand.
Finally, long practiced
at sterilizing items for babies, I used a match to light the propane stove, as
I had watched the cousins do, then boiled the milk hoping that would be enough
to kill any potential germs. While the children chattered, got up and down from
their places at the table, and complained that they were hungry and cold, I let
the milk cool a bit then took a sip. It tasted—like warm milk, with not one
hint of manure. I looked at their expectant faces and down at the cooling
liquid. And then, in an act of great faith, we poured the warm milk over the
bread and gave it to them to eat.
They lived!
No comments:
Post a Comment