In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

54 lamb soup Lamb Soup Tony Ardizzone Fiction (1997) Ciccina Agneddina Ever since Nonna Nedda, the toothless, blind old grandma who could foretell your marital future after you prepared for her a bowl of soup, informed my dear mamma that I was destined by age eighteen to marry a man riding a dappled horse, I feared that I’d end up with the disgusting gabbillotu. You had to stir the soup with your little finger after the broth was poured into a bowl. This was after you invited the old woman to your house. You had to sweep the floor and shoo out all your brothers and sisters as well as any animals. Even though she could see less well than a moss-covered rock, if you had a rack of candles Nonna Nedda expected them to be lit. She sat on your best chair, and for an hour you were supposed to engage her in gossip while the soup that was about to reveal your fate simmered over the fire. Mamma had me tend the pot. In it she’d put a whole onion and some herbs and three handfuls of beans. Nonna Nedda was said to prefer bean soup over broth made with only a bit of onion and greens. That’s what we usually ate: soup made of boiled onion and greens. The women chatted about one of the village’s farmers, Don Ricci, who owned a piece of extremely good land and whose goats that past spring were said to have had seven babies. ‘‘Seven goats!’’ Mamma announced brightly, as if she’d given birth to them herself. ‘‘Humph,’’ Nonna Nedda said, perched on our three-legged stool. The black dress she perpetually wore clung to her rolls of fat like a shadow. Stuffed in their black stockings, her legs hung down to the ground like a pair of dark sticks. ‘‘You’ve seen these goats with your own eyes?’’ ‘‘No, Nonna,’’ Mamma said, ‘‘but he’s shown all seven to others I know in the village.’’ ‘‘His goats had ten or more,’’ said Nonna Nedda. She rolled her head wildly, then sniffed the air like a hound. ‘‘At least three real strong ones, which he keeps out of sight.’’ ‘‘Ahh,’’ my mamma said, nodding. ‘‘The hen’s unseen eggs are never stolen.’’ ‘‘He throws the stone,’’ Nonna Nedda said, ‘‘yet hides his hand.’’ She fluttered her dead eyes. A finger stretched out across the room and pointed out at me. ‘‘The beans are nearly soft enough. Bring me your little lamb.’’ Agneddina, Little Lamb, was my nickname, an endearment my father bestowed on me when I was still on all fours. He gave each of my brothers and Tony Ardizzone 55 sisters nicknames of animals, too. In our family there was Little Monkey, Little Butterfly, Little Parrot, Little Owl Eyes, Little Weevil, Little Bat, Little Turkey, Little Red Fox, Little Gray Mouse. Sometimes when he called all of us into the house you’d think he was wise Noah loading the ark. If ever I tarried or came near to disobeying him he’d put on a serious face, point to my hair, and ask if I wished to be fleeced. ‘‘Shall I pour Nonna the bowl of soup now, Mamma?’’ I called. She didn’t answer. Instead the fat old crow on the stool wagged her head no, then curled her gnarled fingers in the air. Her fingers were the tips of branches of trees that were too ancient and dry to bear any more leaves. Her arms were rotting tree trunks that wanted to leap out of the forest and fall on top of you. I stood before the old sausage, trying not to stare at the straggly dark whiskers sprouting on her chin and the thick tufts of hair generously protruding from her ears as well as the gaping nostrils of her immense nose. She ran her claws up my arms, over my shoulders and across my chest, down my back and rump, over my hips, then between the middle of my legs, all the time saying, ‘‘My, my, my.’’ Believe me, I don’t think the old woman had ever known a washtub. Behind me Mamma smiled with approval as she spooned all the beans she could gather into the woman’s bowl. ‘‘She’s fine,’’ announced Nonna Nedda, ‘‘though quite far from perfect. She’s too skinny, though she’s getting nice and firm on top here where you...

Share