19. Want the truth
La minestra di falsa tartaruga. Soup of false turtle?
Ah, but of course: this was a recipe for mock turtle soup. An old English specialty, it somehow crawled its way into Il Talismano. Historically it's made with ingredients to mimic the flavor and texture of turtle meat, which supposedly tastes a bit like veal. The real thing (turtle soup) is considered a luxury in some Asian cultures; in the US it's often illegal to consume due to species of turtle being on the endangered list. And so...mock turtle soup: a cheaper and more readily available option.
Ada’s version is a broth-based repository of extra animal parts that you’d likely never offer in a fine stew or a grilled plate: rooster testicles (fagioli di pollo, literally “chicken’s beans”), rooster crest (creste di pollo), and calf’s head (testina di vitello). The meatballs added to the broth contain, curiously, turkey (tacchino). I’m wondering: was turkey considered a substandard fowl in Ada’s time? And there is some involved procedure—which even Paul couldn’t completely follow—whereby you slice an outside layer of flesh from the calf's head, boil it, then flatten it under a light weight and leave it to chill in the refrigerator until it forms a gelatinous substance. The gelatin is then returned to the broth along with the meatballs, the crest, and yes, the testicles.
It seems a ridiculous amount of effort to create a mock soup. Granted, it admirably reduces waste, offering a home for edible animal scraps potentially discarded. And the suggested spices and herbs reflect the Italian taste (rosmarino, salvia, basilico...). So why not just call it what it is: (True) Peasants' Soup? Italians relish their minestre, and this one in particular promises to have a savory broth.
Somehow, though, the thought of steaming a baby cow’s head makes me less than eager to prepare the soup, whether it is falsa or true. And Paul? What does he think? Sounds like something out of Harry Potter, he says.
A SIMILAR CARD HAD ARRIVED IN THE MAIL maybe three or four times over the years, and on each occasion I’d had a legitimate reason to excuse myself from showing up at the courthouse. But now I’d just returned from two back-to-back vacations and the summer spread languidly before me, unplanned and entirely open. There was no saying no. My duty as a citizen was calling.
It was, I learned on the first day of juror selection, to be a complex two-part murder trial, lasting the better part of two months. There’d be a heavy focus on mental health: a mother had drowned her two-month-old daughter.
During the opening selection interrogation (a process called voir dire, to speak the truth), the attorney for the prosecution said “So I see, juror 167 [me], that you are a writer.” “I am,” I said. “And what do you write about...?” “Life,” I said, gesturing with my hands, “what else is there?”
The questioning grew more intense throughout that day and those following. Inquiries were asked to the extent that I wondered (as did some others, openly, and were excused during the next round) how fair the juror selection process was. Clearly a general sampling of citizens was not the goal, but rather a choice team assembled to bring a solid verdict.
On day three of the selection, just before the lunch break, a swath of us middle-aged thinker-types was dismissed. The great-grandpop sitting next to me with whom I’d developed a curiously warm friendship gasped when my juror number was called. He and I were the lone survivors from the initial group and by then figured we were destined to be part of the official twelve, returning the following Monday to begin hearing the presented evidence, deliberating the charges, and considering the viability of an insanity plea.
A mother. A child. Her child. Such a trial could gut the soul. Still, I wanted to believe that I was brave enough. I’d wanted to hear this woman’s story. To understand.
She birthed that baby. Then killed her to allegedly save the child from an unbearable life. Is this an insane act...or an utterly sane one?
You would have made a good juror, Paul tells me. Yes, I say. But I’m actually thinking, no, maybe not. Decide the defendant's fate? How? Where would one find the truth in so many layers? And even if the truth could be unearthed, what if it didn't mesh with the evidence, or with the law jurors are sworn to uphold even if they disagree with it? What then? Facts, the judge impressed upon us, you're to consider only the facts. Okay. But facts alone can never tell the whole story.
Years ago, I attended a poetry gathering in which a Bangladeshi poet stood and read about tossing her newborn child from the top floor of an apartment building. It was war time, the insurgents were storming the structure to rape her and the other women there, she knew. As their aggression thundered toward her, she wrapped the baby tightly in his blanket, and freed him to his death before the men could mutilate his tender flesh.
Who was guilty? Who, innocent?
When the poet took her seat among us again, her suffering, still palpable decades later, swallowed the silence of the packed room.
