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But that wasn’t her only reason for making the cookies. She needed to calm down before she sat down with Claudia. As she worked the dough for the biscotti, she instantly felt her muscles relax, and soon her racing thoughts slowed down. She had trained herself long ago in this form of meditation. While she prepared her prized sweets, she emptied her mind of all worries and just focused on the task before her.
    She had to be careful when she kneaded dough that should not be overworked, as was the case with the dough for the anise cookies. If she was really preoccupied, she would keep kneading and kneading away, taking her frustrations out on the dough, only to discover later that it was too tough and useless to make the perfect biscotti. Instead of throwing out the dough and wasting it, Sorella Agata would still make the cookies, but would save them for her and the nuns to consume. After all, she could serve her customers nothing but the best.
    Shaping the cookies into small braids, she spaced them a few inches apart on rimmed baking sheets lined with parchment paper, and then brushed egg wash over each one. After placing the sheets into the oven, she found her thoughts inevitably turning to her conversation with the writer.
    â€œ Stupida! ” she muttered to herself.
    Why did she let Claudia’s interrogation about the cassata affect her so much? Surely, she should be accustomed to all the speculation about the blasted cake.
    They should be focused on producing the finest pastries and serving our village, not on silly gossip created by a bunch of pompous, jealous chefs!
    Sorella Agata’s words came back to her, and she could feel her face flush again. How could she have called the chefs who had visited her pompous and jealous? She was letting her pride over her work take hold—a feeling she strived, as a nun, to keep at bay. Closing her eyes, she prayed, softly speaking the words aloud.
    â€œPlease, God, forgive me. Help me to remember that my work is done to serve You and others. I promise I will try harder not to let my anger get the better of me.”
    Sorella Agata wished she could give Claudia, as well as the other chefs who had visited her, the answer they wanted. She wished she did have a secret ingredient that made her cassata taste as wonderful as it did. But she was just as baffled as the rest of them as to why her cake surpassed all others that had come before it. While the cassata had made Sorella Agata and her pastry shop famous, she still refused to cave in to the requests to make it available year-round as she was now doing with the Virgin’s Breasts pastries and even the marzipan fruit. She only baked cassata three times a year: for Valentine’s Day, Easter, and Christmas. And that was too much for her. As she had told Claudia, making the cake was a bittersweet task for her.
    From preparing the pale-green marzipan that was used to line the sides of the cake pan and gave the cassata its trademark color to ensuring the ricotta cream she used for the filling had the right amount of sweetness, Sorella Agata loved everything about making the cassata that had come to symbolize her beloved Sicily—for it was one of the island’s most treasured desserts. And she took great pride in the elaborate designs she created on the cake once it was assembled and a lemon icing was spread over its top. She liked to fill a piping bag with melted chocolate and then create a border of decorative swirls around the cake. Then in the center, she used candied fruits and arranged them in the shape of a flower. The cake was a stunning work of art once it was completed. Yet whenever she made the cassata, an overwhelming sadness took hold of her.
    As a deeply spiritual woman, Sorella Agata did not believe in superstition, which was hard since Sicilians steadfastly adhered to decades-long superstitions. But she was beginning to think the cake had some sort of malocchio, or evil eye, attached to it.