Let Them Eat Petit Fours

My parents met while they were both patients in a tuberculosis sanatorium in upstate New York.  They also developed lasting friendships with some of the other patients while they were there, many of whom where Catholic priests and nuns.  One of my mother’s best friends was Sr. Leoni. 

My mother would take us to visit Sr. Leoni on Easter and to celebrate whenever one of us kids received a sacrament -- our first communion or our confirmation.  I was not a very devoted Catholic, even as a very young child, but I was devoted to Sr. Leoni and many of the other nuns who received us at their Maryknoll convent. 

Because we always visited during a very special occasion, and because my mother had a penchant for “putting on the Ritz,” she would spend hours on our outfits.  My sisters and I wore our prettiest dresses, poofed out around the hems with inflatable petticoats.  We had ruffles on our underwear, should our ballooned slips ever catch too much air and allow for such a sighting.  Our hats were stiff and the bands under our chins were scratchy, but our banana curls, cemented to our heads with Dippity-do, held our heads and hats in place.  My anklet socks would always keep slipping down into my black patent leather shoes.  But they were shiny shoes that could blind anyone within range.  It was my father’s task to spend the night before burnishing them with Vaseline.

It was a little bit of a drive from our house, but we had no need of dolls or books or other methods of entertainment to keep us occupied until we arrived at the convent.  We were in our mother’s service and it was our mission to stay in uniform and be able to pass inspection throughout the entire visit.  I was a toy unto myself.  My rogue socks needed constant adjustment – difficult to do wearing white cotton gloves.  I needed to check my purse frequently to be sure I had indeed placed my collection envelope in the collection basket during mass and that the quarter had not mysteriously slipped out and into the lining of my pocketbook.  Peering into my pocketbook would make my curls fall into my face and I had to keep my mouth closed to be sure I didn’t lose my appetite on pink hair gel. 

The convent was a mansion surrounded by incredibly landscaped gardens.  The drive alone up the gravel entranceway to the front door through the fields and flowers was enough to satisfy all the senses, but was dulled by the anticipation of the rest of the visit.  No squealing children freed from the confines of an hour long drive were we.  We were regimented and drilled in the conduct becoming Grace McGee’s offspring.   

But as soon as we were on the convent grounds it suddenly became OK.  It was the nuns who came squealing out to great us!  We were invited, desired and loved.  We were clustered about by these great beings garbed in heavy white linen.  We were ooh’d and aah’d over, admired and petted.  We could do no wrong.  We left our worldly childish bodies and were transformed into cherubs.  Our hostesses glided us indoors, inside the wide heavy doors and into the marble floored interior of the grange.  This is where my humanness would begin to slip back into my physical body, as my aforementioned Vaseline shined patent leather shoes proved to be their worthless selves in footwear.  It was impossible to stay vertical and ladylike once their velvet soft soles touched the polished marble.  My toes would perform heroic acts trying to cling to anything solid, but were only successful in furthering the balled up wad of anklet.  To be sure, I never felt the cold slap of marble against my ruffled bottom.  Somehow, a white linen being was ever present and stabilizing. 

We would be ushered into the drawing room for the adult part of the visit.  Generally a curious and sometimes clingy child, I would often hang back with the adults. Not here, however.  There was a bear rug in the room in front of the fireplace.  A white bear rug.  A beautiful soft white bear rug.  That’s it.  That’s all I remember about the adult part.  It is not necessary to have any more memories of that part.  I could roll to my heart’s content on the rug, and then with precision timing, I would be lifted off the white bear rug and escorted down the long marble hallway to the kitchen.   

To the unimaginative, it was simply an industrial kitchen with stainless steel shelves, tables, counter tops, and appliances.  In retrospect, I know there must have been a formal dining room to receive visitors older than us.  But to me, this was where God’s food and my convent-visit treats were created.  The nuns sat us down at the table and magic sandwiches appeared in front of us.  These sandwiches required nothing more of us than to place them in our mouths.  Somehow our bodies became one with them, no chewing was required.  They landed on your tongue, the taste was delicate, smooth, hinting at wholesomeness, exclaiming in deliciousness.  One would disappear in my mouth, another appeared on my plate.  Tiny white bread sandwiches, no crust. White tuna perfectly melded with a hint of celery and mayonnaise. A jam sandwich.  A raspberry jam sandwich cut into a perfect 2” x 2” square.   

The beverage of heaven was milk.  It was an offering only, no demand.  It was not the milk of my mother.  My mother’s milk was made from powdered skim milk mixed with warm tap water and poured from a tainted plastic pitcher that was salvaged from an antique junk sale.  This was ice cold milk, served in a glass thimble to be sipped at will, or not.  I saw the cow who bestowed her milk to us, up on her own cow cloud, udder wrapped in ice, as she smiled down upon us, there in God’s kitchen. 

And then the angels sang.  Lunch was not yet over.  The nuns were now levitating around the table, exchanging sandwich plates for dessert plates.  The choir was reaching the crescendo.  And then they appeared.  Petit fours.  Many, many, lovely, lovely petit fours.  Made in heaven. Served by the seraphim.  To me!!    

It is close to 50 years since I last saw Sr. Leoni.  I marvel at the sequence of events that intertwined her life with mine.  I wonder about interactions I’ve had with other people and the effect those interactions have had on their lives.  I wonder if anyone in the world loves petit fours as much as I do.