Palm Sunday in Italy

Much of Italy awakened this morning to the sound of church bells. In the early hours of Sunday, when the Roman streets are still and the day hasn’t yet gathered its usual rhythm, the bells seem to travel farther, more clearly. In our neighborhood they began at 7, then again at 7:30, and by 8 the sound drifts up from Trastevere, rolling gently across the hill.

Our neighbors, one building down, say that on Sunday they sometimes even distinguish the sweet toll of San Benedetto in Piscinula, nearly three kilometers away. Their son was baptized there, so hearing it so distinctly feels like a small, unexpected gift, something that stirs memory and affection all at once.

Today is Palm Sunday. In Italy the tradition is to collect a small branch from the church — once a palm (but Italy’s palms are dying) and now most often an olive — symbolizing the palms that were waved at Jesus as he entered Jerusalem.  The priest has blessed the branches.  And, carefully, to take it home.

In both Jewish and Roman traditions, palm branches represented victory, peace and celebration.

At the local pasticceria, Dolci Desideri, clients put their branches down upon the bar counter as they consume a post-mass bomba and cappuccino, but no one forgets to collect them before they leave. That would be a terrible thing to do.

Collecting your branch is a gesture that crosses belief and habit. Nearly everyone I know, devout or not, stops by a church today to collect a branch.

At home, it will find its place: slipped into a mirror frame, tucked into a wall calendar, hung above a doorway or, quite often, attached by a hook over a bed, like a talisman.  There it will remain for the year, a small, constant presence of Palm Sunday.

My friend Elisa could not leave the house today, so clipped a small branch from her potted olive tree and set it in a glass of water near the window.  She said that she would later take it to the priest to have it blessed.  “Tutto si può fare.” Everything is possible. She meant, I think, that traditions adapt easily for those of good heart.

I’ve always had an enormous fondness for olive trees, their silvery leaves, their resilience, the way they shape the landscape, their longevity and their oil. On Palm Sunday, I think about the branches, freshly cut and gathered in huge piles, and the countless number of trees that have been despoiled. Still, when I see the olive tree branches carried home and given an intentional place there, they feel less like something taken and more like something shared.

As Easter approaches, conversations turn, as they always do in Italy, to food. Plans vary from region to region, family to family, some elaborate, others intentionally simple. A friend in Palermo told me she’s leaning toward lamb and — “if someone else peels them” — potatoes.

A friend who is a passionate Roman cook and has taught me more than a few Roman classics — among them a sublime carciofo alla giudia —  collected her branch and spent the balance of the morning with her husband on their terrace. Spring is well underway, and they were tending to their pots: seedlings of peppers, eggplants, three kinds of tomatoes, basil from Genoa, and zucchini, all carefully arranged to catch the sun. Between watering and repositioning, they talked about Easter lunch, debating what might please everyone without becoming too elaborate.

“Something simple,” she said, brushing soil from her hands. “But good. Artichokes.”

And then there are the gifts that appear : a bouquet of the intensely fragrant viole di Pasqua…

Or a homemade Pasqua scarcella, still warm, its ring shape and eggs carrying their familiar symbolism of continuity and renewal.

A dove-shaped, almond-studded Easter colomba cake.

One friend told me his Palm Sunday wish : “My wish is the very best for everyone. My wish is for peace. May everyone be well. May everyone be serene.”

I am sure that thousands of others today thought just the same.

By now, the morning has shifted. The pasticcerie have emptied and filled again.  Olive branches have been positioned in the spot where they now will stay for a year, and are already beginning their slow desiccation. Plans for Easter continue to take shape — a dish, a trip, a guest.

Buona domenica delle Palme, cari amici.  Happy Palm Sunday, my friends.

www.insidersitaly.com