A Night in Santa Croce del Sannio for Sagra della Scamorza

A sagra is, to a certain degree, the Italian equivalent of a local fair, usually celebrating a certain food.  Attending a sagra is a great way to get the local flavor of Italian country life.  Sagre (plural) are held from spring through October, usually on weekends. They are hosted in small villages, generally to raise money for a cause.  There is often a market, carnival rides or games for kids, music, and of course the featured food, which is cooked by people from the village.  Simply served on plastic plates, visitors and locals sit at communal tables in the main piazza. 

I was fortunate to have the opportunity to attend the Sagra della Scamorza (Feast of Mozzarella) last night in Santa Croce del Sannio in southern Italy.  Santa Croce del Sannio is a small village that today has a population of 991 people.  My grandfather was born in this village, although the population at that time was closer to 10,000 inhabitants.  This was my third visit to Santa Croce, a village that holds a special place in my heart.

We arrived about 6:30 pm and started with a visit to see my great-aunt.  After that, the main street with the piazza was beginning to show signs of a successful sagra.  Some booths were set up with games for children, a few vendors were selling items to benefit the cause, and some sweet snacks lined both sides of the street. 

At the end of the road by my great aunt’s house there is a bar, which in Italy can be many things.  This one served both alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, coffee, and many flavors of delicious gelato.  It had lots of chairs and tables outside, but the bar was fairly empty at this early hour of the evening.  I saw the familiar face of a man standing outside the bar.  It was Tito, the owner, who I had met two years ago on my last trip to Santa Croce del Sannio.  Tito spoke great English and also owned a gift shop.  We enjoyed his company two years ago and I had kept in contact with annual Christmas greetings.  Tito spends time in New York too, where he has a second house.  I went up and reintroduced myself.  He remembered me well and invited us in for a drink.  I asked him if his gift shop was open because I wanted to buy a few gifts from the village for some people back home.  He said it would be open tomorrow and asked us how long we would be in Santa Croce.  When I told him only a few hours this year and not a few nights like last time, he went inside to get his wife to open the gift shop for us.  Within 3 minutes we were inside the shop, which was a few doors up the road.  There was not a moment’s hesitation on his part to do this.  I found four items I wanted to purchase, and then I went back outside and walked a little further down the same street. 

Two years ago I also was introduced to a man named Luigi who owned Luigi’s Market.  His last name is DiGiuseppe, like my maiden name.  My cousin had introduced us two years ago and said that we were likely distant cousins but not sure of the connection.  I wanted to ask Luigi from which line of DiGiuseppes he was descended.  Over the last two years much research had been done to update our family tree.  When I walked to the market, it was open and Luigi was standing outside.  I reintroduced myself to him.  He spoke only fast Italian but I relayed my questions.  It became clear that we are related as we thought; his great-grandfather and my great-grandfather were brothers.  He wrote down a little information for me for the tree, but said to have my cousin call him and he could relay more information at a better time.

Next, I rejoined my group of cousins, who were outside conversing with many friends they knew.  We noticed a long line of people waiting to buy food tickets.  A section of the walkway in front of the Municipio (town hall) was lined with rectangular tables with benches, all seemingly full with people of all ages.  We were a group of ten that night.  The men got in line for the tickets, and the women looked for tables with the help of the ‘kids’, ages 15-24.  Both groups took some time to accomplish their task, and coincidentally both were fulfilled within minutes of each other.

The first thing we ate was fresh scamorza cheese (similar to mozzarella) melted on the grill, served on a hard roll.  After enjoying that, we had calzones with melted cheese and prosciutto.  While eating, we contributed to the chatter that filled the piazza.  All the while, Italian music filled the street from end to end; first recorded instrumental music alone, then accompanied by young energetic male singer.  His truck, parked down the road, said ASCOLTARE E BALLARE  (listen and dance).  Luckily he had a great voice and he went from one local favorite song to the next. 

Before long, the main piazza was bursting with people.  Soon we gave up our table to the next hungry group and inched closer to the music. The singer’s equipment was set up in front of the central fountain in the square, covered by an old small arch.  By this time he was singing music that got about eight people up on their feet dancing.  It was a structured line dance with steps repeated throughout. It reminded me of being at an Italian wedding with traditional songs and dances.

My husband took my son for a 2-minute walk to the house where my grandfather was born, which is now abandoned.  I didn’t go this time because the road down to the house was steep, and if you are a regular reader of my posts, you know I recently had a total knee replacement.  As they stood in front of the house, two old men who lived around the corner heard them speaking English as they were taking their evening stroll.  They conversed through my son who speaks Italian and found out they knew my grandfather’s sister.  Since my grandfather left Italy when he was 17, they had never met him.  The men got very excited when they discovered that the foreigners they were speaking to had family ties to the house in front of them.  They conversed for about 15 minutes during which time Antonio invited them into his woodshop right around the corner, where he had an impressive collection of his own works.  Once they bid farewell to Antonio and Michele, my son described this experience as a parallel universe moment where two independent worlds intersected for one moment. 

As the evening wore on, we slowly worked our way back down to the beginning of the street where Tito’s bar was.  We found a table and two chairs available outside, and then slowly added one chair at a time as they became available, until we had well more than ten because at this point our group had grown in number.  Gelatos and drinks were purchased, English and Italian heard round the table, and we enjoyed the fresh cool evening air.  I was shocked when I looked at my watch to discover it was 1:00 am. 

At the end of the day, which it clearly was, I tried here to convey the atmosphere of the evening. The cool fresh air, the happiness of the moment, the slowness of the pace, the friendships seen…were all part of the evening.  Running into people I knew increased the sensation I had of feeling at home.  But words and photos alone cannot truly express what I felt in my heart.  Perhaps I lived here in another lifetime because I felt like I was home. 

Dancing to the music with the arch and fountain of the main piazza in the background.

Our son in front of the house where my grandfather was born.

Rows of tables where everyone enjoyed the scamorza.