Anna Signorelli’s kitchen was large and warm, like herself. From both emanated the same robust generosity, and the vitality of Anna’s spirit could be savoured in the zest of her cooking. Some artists pour their souls into poignant music, or the play of light and shade on canvas. For Anna, food was the medium of her masterpieces, and to observe her as she cooked was to see a creative genius at work.

As she darted from chopping board to mixing bowl or bubbling pot, the white apron cinched around her plump waist was itself a palette, dotted with dabs of golden butter or crimson sauce.

Half a dozen sleek cats of assorted colours watched and waited as Anna bent meditatively over the steaming saucepans, sipped from a wooden spoon and considered. If the brasato al Barolo or the chicken cacciatore passed her rigorous test, she would rumble, “Here cats. She’s good, no?”, and fling down a pungent tidbit.

She always spoke to the cats when she was alone, and she was alone often. Yet, though she had been a widow for twenty years, Anna did not brood over misfortune or feel sorry for herself. She was too caught up in living and making plans – for herself and others – to be lonely. At first, she had divided her time among the kitchen garden, her recipes and Sophia, her only child. Now, with Sophia married (and about time!) to an English doctor, Anna had only her cooking and her cats – at least until the newlyweds moved in with her.

But perhaps that wasn’t quite true. After all, Anna also had her friends in the village. When the postman or the milkman popped in, “just for a moment, Anna; only a moment, really,” she would press them to sample her sweet rolls, warm from the oven, dripping with honey from her own bees. Or she would urge them to have a sip, merely a few spoons of minestrone, for how else could they survive all the work they had yet to do?

Grown men, they would bask in her kindness, like puppies stretching themselves along a sunny doorstep. And when, for the fourth time, they had pointed weakly at their watches, Anna would draw from them one final tantalising piece of gossip and then send them on their way, trailing crumbs.

Then, too, there were the children. As soon as school was out, a steady stream of rosy faces appeared at her back door. “Hello Aunty Anna. How are you? Can I have a cake?” So, for a few hours, her kitchen would be filled with chatter and laughter. While the little ones played with her cats and stuffed themselves with dolci di mandola, Anna hummed to herself, vigorously sudsing the dishes. She remembered Sophia’s childhood – too soon gone – and imagined her future grandchildren, whose lusty shouts would one day echo through the house. Ah, how glorious that would be.

It was on a Friday evening, while she was mincing a clove of garlic over the salad, that she heard a car in the drive. Anna dropped the knife, peeled off her well-anointed apron and straightened her hair. Standing by the front door, jiggling excitedly from foot to foot, it was all she could do to restrain herself from rushing outside and gathering the newlyweds to her bosom. But that would never do! Sophia had reminded her that the English did not welcome such effusive emotion, and that Mama would embarrass them both if she did not respect the ways of this new “man of the house”.

Ah, there they were at last: Doctor and Mrs. Herbert Chatt. Such a strange, brittle name, thought Anna; like a snapping twig. Pity Sophia couldn’t have found a nice Italian boy. “Bambina,” cooed Anna, kissing her daughter’s cheek; it glowed with rosy, honeymoon radiance. But, oh dear. Herbert looked so pale and thin. Such a long face! Never mind; she would fatten him up soon enough.

She began right away, urging them into their chairs at the table. Before them she set an earthenware crock of fragrant mussel soup. Then zucchini in ambrosial pomodoro sauce; platters of fettucine smothered in baby clams and garlic; chicken stuffed with wild mushrooms and speckled with pepper and rosemary. There was a basket of aromatic garlic bread and a pot of homemade cream cheese, a piquant salad, and, to wash it all down, two bottles of warming Valpolicella. All day, Anna had been performing culinary miracles. Now, like the Lord on the seventh day, she rested, waiting for her new son-in-law’s praise.

But what was this? The young doctor merely waved his frail hand impatiently through the billows of savoury steam and coughed. “Mother Signorelli. I regret that I cannot eat this. I will just have a sandwich, if you please. I can’t have my patients leaving my practice because I reek of garlic now, can I? So no more garlic in future. Agreed?”

Anna clutched her heart and gave an involuntary cry. What!? No garlic? But garlic was the mainstay, the essence, the very soul of her cooking. All her life, she had elevated the sleeping songs of her food into arias with those crisp, crescent cloves. And now this tight-lipped little man, with a body like knotted string was telling her to stop? Impossible!

Of course, she said none of this. She knew that men can be stubborn, as well as foolish. So she wheedled and cajoled. Surely, as a learned doctor, he must be aware of the medicinal properties and powers of garlic? Why, it killed germs and purified the blood. And with a clove tied around one’s neck, beneath one’s underlinen, there was no danger of catching a cold. And wasn’t it true that garlic bound under the springs of the nuptial bed would assure that the first born would be a son?

Having satisfied himself that Anna was quite finished, Herbert replied quietly but firmly, “ Mrs. Signorelli, please. I assure you, I don’t mind what you eat; I respect your traditions. But I have my patients and our livelihood to consider. As for Sophia, as my wife, she will be expected to participate in various community activities, and will no doubt wish to entertain other wives at coffee mornings. So it won’t do for her to stink of garlic either.” Herbert shook his finger as he spoke, and Anna did not like fingers shaken at her. Somehow, she swallowed her indignation, but doing so robbed her of her appetite.

Doctor Chatt ate his bland cheese sandwiches in triumph that night, for he thought he had won. He never suspected that this was only the first, minor skirmish of The Garlic War.

For a fortnight, Anna banished garlic from her kitchen. The rope of bulbs which had hung from the beam was gone; the glistening jars of pickled garlic and homemade pesto vanished. Even the rich aroma that had long dwelt in the very walls began to fade. In its place, a disagreeable odour of chemical cleansers invaded; the kitchen assumed the clinical coldness of an operating theatre.

Mama Signorelli withdrew her forces and began to plot a strategy. Mustering her cats and her condiments, she continued to cook for herself on a gas ring in her bedroom. She maintained, with grave dignity, that while she would prepare Herbert’s insipid meals, she would never deign to eat them.

Behind her dark veneered door, she cursed Herbert softly to the cats. “What kind of man is this my Sophia brings into my house? A scrawny chicken without any blood, without even the sense to know what his belly wants. Grandsons from that!? Never. Not till we learn him some things, eh, cats?” She laughed. They were good listeners, those cats, with their golden eyes and garlicky purrs.

As for Herbert (and alas, poor Sophia also), for fourteen nights he ate his pale pork chop, boiled potatoes and lettuce with no dressing, while Anna stood by, watching. At first, he ate with gusto. But toward the eighth or ninth day, his enthusiasm was obviously only for Anna’s benefit. He began to dread dinnertime, and to make excuses to stay late at the surgery.

On the fifteenth day, Anna took a plump tomato into her room. She sliced it very thinly and rubbed each slice on one side only with an uncut clove of garlic. There was so little enhancement that even a trained palate could hardly have detected the forbidden taste.

That night, Herbert sat down rather glumly; but when he spied the tomato, his face lit up with fresh interest. “Aha! A little change, eh, Mother?” He gobbled the tomato, leaving only one slice for poor Sophia, who was looking rather wan. It pained Anna to see her healthy, vivacious girl fading like a shadow. But if this house was ever to be a real home, certain things had to be done. This was war, and Anna knew her duty.

Three nights later, she took four wild mushrooms into her bedroom, minced an eighth of a clove of garlic into melted butter and brushed the gills of the funghi sparingly, before grilling them. That evening, there was nothing at all left for Sophia. “Wonderful, Mother,” said Herbert, patting Anna’s arm. “Your cooking has improved since we settled that unfortunate matter of the you-know-what.” Mama Signorelli thanked her son-in-law, cleared the plates away and winked at the cats.

For five more nights, she served chops, tomatoes, lettuce and mushrooms, but each time, with a whisper more garlic, a tiny, new gloss of balsamic vinegar , olive oil or pepper. Each increase was so gradual, so subtle that Herbert apparently never noticed. Atom by atom, with infinite care and patience, Anna reintroduced her spicy, scintillating flavours.

The change in Herbert was amazing. With each passing week, his appetite increased. So did his weight. His white shirts became miraculously too tight around the collar. “You must be washing them on too high a temperature,” Herbert chided, and began to wear his collars open. Strangely, his waistcoats, too, seemed unable to stretch around his increasingly ample girth. Anna said nothing, but she dropped a smirking glance at Sophia, when he brought her burst buttons to be re-sewn.

But the secret powers of Anna’s cuisine did far more. They transformed a dour, censorious doctor into a happy man. Health flushed his face and light danced in his eyes. His voice rang with a hale-fellow-well-met heartiness and a lively anecdote slipped often from his tongue. What if a few puritanical patients had drifted away to doctors with more circumspect habits? Plenty more came in their place, delighted to be treated by such a jolly, approachable chap.

At last, the evening of the final battle arrived. It was time to risk everything. With some trepidation, Anna placed before her son-in-law a large platter of succulent manicotti, redolent with luscious sauce and a blizzard of parmesan. This was The Moment of Truth.

Sophia’s lip quivered a little as she caught her mother’s eye. But Anna did not quail. She stood, fists planted on her ample hips, immovable and determined. If the explosion was coming, then let it come.

The women watched Herbert’s hand moving methodically from plate to mouth to plate again. Lord in heaven, was he blind? Didn’t he see the shrapnel of rosemary, the black powder of the pepper? Couldn’t he taste the incendiary garlic? Sophia squirmed.

If Herbert knew that he was the central figure in a compelling drama, he gave no sign. But was he saving the final salvo until the end? Was fury seething just out of sight? Laying down his fork on the empty dish, the doctor said quietly, “I have something to say.”

Herbert rose to his feet and strode across the kitchen. There was no warning, no time to step back. “Mama Signorelli!” he boomed, and seized her by the shoulders. Then, scooping his mother-in-law into his arms, he planted a breathtaking kiss on each of her cheeks. “Mama, you’re a wonderful cook!”

And that’s the way Anna Signorelli fought and won The Garlic War. Though, if you ask me, they all won – Mama, Herbert, Sophia…oh, yes – and baby Angelo, who made his appearance not long after. I don’t suppose Herbert ever thought to check his bedsprings.”

Menu for an Italian Dinner Party

Antipasto platter
Garlic bread
Monkfish and pepper kebabs
Pasta with pomodoro sauce
Raspberry and chocolate fool

Mussel Chowder
Chicken Cacciatora