Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (23) - Flipbook - Page 28
before my wife does. ‘Pronto. Nonna. I have everything and it’s
all drying. Yes, Nonna. I love you,’ and as I put the phone down
there is a look of confusion or pity on my wife’s face.
‘It’s Nonna,’ I explain.
‘What, dead Nonna? Your very dead and decomposed grandmother?‘
my wife asks incredulously.
‘Yes, I only had one, silly.’
‘Lay off the vino, it’s barely midday.’ And she heads off to
hide the wine, strega, limoncello, and two bottles of grappa I
keep for national emergencies.
Easter Sunday. My wife has set twelve places at the table. The
little puckered pasta parcels, turned twice, are dry and will
boil for three minutes, moved by a gentle wooden spatula. We
toast each other Happy Easter and start on the antipasti of
mortadella, prosciutto, figs, and home baked bread. The secondi
will follow the tordelli. After there are cheeses and my wife has
made Nonna’s zabaglione recipe. The wines start white with crisp
Tuscan Vernaccia before the big boy Barolo is unleashed. The
tordelli is heaped in the terrine decorated with painted vines. I
pour the sugo on top and cover with grated cheese from above like
it is snowing on the Apennines. We take our first mouthfuls,
awaiting the memories of Nonna and her kitchens. I look at eleven
happy faces as the telephone rings. Then my mobile, my wife’s
mobile, my son’s, and I say,
‘Whatever you do, don’t answer, it’s Nonna.’
My wife looks at me, her hand confiscates my glass, but it’s
too late; I am already in those Tuscan hills, high up where its
bright and warm and smells of wood stoves and coffee and pastries
from Geraldo’s and I hear my dad’s Vespa buzzing up the hill and
Nonna shouts at me through the speakers to stop playing with the
chickens and come and wash my hands.
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