By Valentina P. Grohovaz

When Mamma made merenda we were happy. I came home from asilo with the most joyous stains of childhood on my grembiule, dust from the sandy ground I played on, ink from my failed attempts at spelling my name. I said goodbye to Anto and Paola and went to meet my brother at the end of the road. Up to Via Ceretta we went, calling for Linda in the yard. She wagged her little tail as I bounded toward the house. No matter how long I had been at school, she always remembered me. On the table Mamma had set out our plates with bread and butter. She let us sprinkle some sugar on top if we were good. Some days she would go to the mercato, and we had fresh fruit. She would cut an orange in half, place it on the counter and squeeze out the juice inside. One sip brought me to Sicilia, to Puglia, to the Southern beaches I had never seen. I seldom drank orange juice, but when I did I was happy.

When Papà came home that day I was sitting at the table. It was dusk and I was playing with my bambola at the table. Mamma wore a pretty dress. It was long, almost sweeping the floor, and her hair was freshly cut in her classic bob. Papà looked very handsome with his big tie and brown suit, but he looked very tired. He called Fabio and I to come sit at the table. I could see the fruit bowl in the corner, Mamma must have gone to the mercato today, I thought. There was a big, bright orange placed neatly on top of the apples and apricots. I hoped she might squeeze us some juice after cena. Mamma looked sad too, though, like she knew what Papà had to say. “I’m going to New York”, he said. “Mamma will join me soon”, he said. Papà went on a lot of trips for his job, but Mamma never went with him. I would miss them but I knew he would come back with a new bambola, and I would get to stay with my madrina and cugina Gabri. “And then you will come with us”, he said, “We will go to Toronto”. I did not know what a Toronto was, or where you might find one. He told us it was all the way in Canada, and we would stay there for a while. How long? I thought, and would the oranges be ripe when we got back? That’s all I really wanted to know.

The oranges would not stay ripe. We would go away for a long time. We had to leave Linda. We would go to school where there were no grembiule. They spoke a different language in Canada. I would have to learn it. 

When we got to the apartment, I felt very sick. My stomach was rumbling but I was not hungry. Mamma said there was a store across the street. The street was called Saint Clair Avenue West. That was a lot of words for one street. The store was called “Ziggy’s”. I had never met anyone named “Ziggy”. Mamma said there would be food for merenda there. I hoped Ziggy had Nutella. When Papà came home he had a carton and a bag made of plastic. The bread inside looked fake, like it was made for bambola. It was almost shiny, and it was the wrong colour. There were words on the label I didn’t understand. Papà didn’t understand them either. I would later learn it said, “Hot Dog Buns”. It was the only bread that looked like the one at home that we used to make a panino. The carton had a beautiful picture on the front. It showed the orange cut in half, like Mamma made us at home. The picture even showed the juice coming out of the vibrant flesh. It was the wrong colour when Mamma poured it into a glass. It was the wrong taste when I drank it. It was the wrong colour when it came back up.

When I got married and my husband and I bought our first house, he was the first to go grocery shopping. I should have known my mistake when he came home with that same carton. I hate orange juice.

Glossary:

Merenda – snack
Asilo – kindergarten
Grembiule – a kind of smock that children wear as a uniform to school in Italy
Mercato – market
Bambola – doll
Madrina – godmother
Cugina – cousin
Panino – sandwich