Then she broke the eggs inside the mountain, a pinch of salt, a drop of water if needed, and a duck egg to make it more yellow and wholesome. I watched her hands create an eruption, and a rapid succession of dam-bursts and repairs, to make sure the amalgam was perfect, chasing after lava flows that tried insistently to reach my nose.
In this case woman overcame nature, the final ball was proof of her victory, the volcano defeated, the fusion a success. My mum had some wrists on her! She continued to knead like a blacksmith would beat on his anvil.
Then on the board, her rolling-pin would calibrate the thickness of the dough, she’d create a yellow sun, she’d dust it with flour, then leave it to dry a little. Not an easy task, a labour of precision and strength. In the meanwhile the kitchen was invaded with the perfume of pasta sauce.
She’d roll the dough like you’d fold a bed-sheet, then as her fingers dictated the distance, she’d neatly cut the pasta ribbons. I’d look at her proudly as she gently unfolded each little roll and without even bothering about the sharp knife, I’d reach out and steal one of the ribbons to taste, just as it was, raw. A prelude to a dish that I absolutely loved.
I’d take a glass of wine to dad in the vineyards, that was his aperitif. Then after moment, that strong voice would echo as usual , “ Is it ready?!!”. That’s when my Sunday commenced. The volcano is still alive. But I miss that voice.