I still remember, and I was a child, that scent of steaming broth
that invaded the vaults of the narrow atrium that led to the beautiful stone houses
of the high mountain village where my aunt Sina lived.
I ran and climbed the stairs two by two to see if it really was
she had kept her promise to make me her tortelli:
great though it was astonishment when, having arrived in the kitchen,
besides the smell that had led me there,
the perfume of his and only his meatballs with pine nuts began to expand.
The party had begun.
My aunt hugged me and whispered in my ear:
“I also prepared the honey struffoli!”
I have always pursued those moments, in memory and in affections, and now that they seem so far away, I want them to revive together with the true flavors,
not only of the kitchen, but also of time.