The recipe
lives in memory.
Every Sunday, Nana’s kitchen filled with very special aromas. Everything was strong and noisy, like the Italian blood that ran through our veins.
There was the smell of oregano, tomato, flour and eggs; the smell of tuco. Yes, that tuco which had been boiling in the clay pot since early morning, and which we stole with pieces of bread dipped into it, in a hurry, because Grandma would shout that we were taking away its colour.
Then she put on her apron, worn by the years, and began the ritual. On the table she made a volcano of flour and, in the crater, placed the eggs one by one. How many? As many as there were guests. That is how she explained it to us.
Her hands kneaded slowly, with patience. Her measured rhythm folded and kneaded. We watched her, fascinated, while it became softer and more elastic, until it ended in a shower of yellow noodles like the sun.
Everything was strong: the red sauce made with plum tomatoes and her secrets, the yellow noodles and the provolone that could not be missing. Over the years her hands began to grow tired until they disappeared, but her grandchildren did not allow Grandma’s recipe to be forgotten.
Because it was not only pasta, it was the family seated around the table. And the recipe is not written in any notebook; it was kept in the hands, in the memories and in the hearts of those who continue making it.