Overview

These are pages of life lived by me or simply inherited. The days spent in my house and in that of my maternal grandparents, the contact with nature, with simple and important things, the stories of my grandmothers, of my mother often merge with each other and it is difficult for me to place them in a precise space. I only know that they are all part of my person who was forged by them and, day after day, is nourished. The foods, the dishes that I will tell you about are not divided into first courses, second courses, side dishes, desserts, because they were, often, single dishes. Their ingredients were those that our land gave us. In short, it was a zero-mile cuisine. Our kitchen changed smell in the different seasons... While in spring and summer it smelled of abundance, of the garden, of fruit, in winter and autumn, it smelled of embers, had the warmth of meetings around the fire... It is difficult for me to control the tenses of verbs...past and present often get confused... When the waves of the past forcefully re-emerge, I bathe in them and they are there... The water foams...refreshes...distant...returns... And then there were the dead seasons...when time seemed to never change... In these seasons, poor in fruit, stingy with fire, we ate the same...

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