The Queen of CMR

"Once upon a time..." That's how fairy tales begin. That's how this one begins, too. Although as far as I know there were no fairies or magic involved. Once upon a time....a palace was built. In the 1400's. When the hamlet that would eventually be ruled by Raimondo Caldara and named "Castiglione Messer Raimondo"  was emerging from its feudal state. There was still a vestige of feudalism when the palace was built, a landed gentry system. Wealthy families who owned hectares of land grew what was needed for the village to survive. They owned the space where artisans and craftspeople made the scythes, dishes, cloth, and where they ground grain. Where the miller's wife,  the mugniaia, made the region's signature pasta which would bear her name. Those who didn't own land were employees of those who did. Kind of like corporations today, only rustic. There were several landed gentry families and at least 4 of their palazzi survive in Castiglione Messer Raimondo. Gilda lives in one of them.
She wasn't born there. Nor did she begin her life there.

She began her life on a rotating board placed in a small, arched opening of a convent. Kind of like a lazy Susan for unwanted babies. The nuns took her in. No one has told me how long she was there before being taken in by the padrone of the grand palazzo. Its vaulted ceilings in the entrance hall and in each room are decorated with frescoes. The terrazzo at the far end of the hall has an unrestricted view of the Gran Sasso mountains. The surface of its travertine floor is easily twice that

of my daughter's Brooklyn apartment.

"C' e' una grande cantina sotto" she tells me as she guides me through the fraction of the 30 rooms that make up the palazzo. She points to the floor below as if I can see through it to the big cellar she is describing.

 "Una volta c' era una festa per piu' di 300 persone!" 

My eyes widen. "A party for 300 people down there?!" 

"PIU ' di 300!" MORE than 300! She exclaims, throwing her arms in the air. 

"Wow." is all I can manage, unable to find an Italian equivilent.

Gilda now throws her arms around me. "Brava! Capisci bene l'italiano! E' parli bene!" 

Her compliments about my language competence seem to magically make it a fact.

No one knows how long Gilda has lived in the palazzo. No one knows or will tell her age. Perhaps per Gilda's orders. But she will tell you she was quite young when she began working in the house, cooking, serving, doted on by the padrone until his death. His will stipulated that if his children did not wish to keep and live in the house that it should go to her. They didn't and it did. 

Watching her move about her kitchen, directing us dinner guests who have offered to help her prepare the pasta fagioli, deep fried green olives, and quiche-like appetizer stuffed with spinach and ground meat, it seems as though Gilda is simultaneously servant and queen. Her movements are quick, direct, accurate as she drains the pasta, stirs the sauce, removes the beans from the flame, and pours all of them in a graceful cascade into a deep, wide bowl. 

We, her adoring assistants, scurry to bring the food out to the long table on the terrazzo. She has invited my current Casa da Carmine guests, 8 of their family members, and me to a Sunday evening cena. 

"No, no, no!" Tony, my houseguest, had protested. "E' troppo lavoro! Too much work!"

Gilda had pointed at each of us, one at a time, and said "La domenica. Alle 7." Sunday at 7. 

One by one we acquiesced.

When we sat down, Gilda was at the head of the table, chin high, eyes sparkling. No one dared begin to eat until she gave the all clear. 

"Buon apetito!" She said, and as if choreographed by a gran dame of dance, we began passing plates around. Gilda sat and beamed. She had not always been this way. The stalwart, big-hearted, undisputed queen of CMR. No one knows what prompted her turn of fate. From serving girl to property owner. No one knows why il padrone ceded his palace to her. There are speculations. You 

may join in them with your own imagination. There is no speculation or doubt, however, that Gilda has taken the scepter with complete aplomb.