This new recipe, developed for Masi and Campfiorin 50, has appeared on our table in these days. In these days I like to eat as there’s always something new and important to celebrate, the time is mine and I use it to cook just for the pleasure of spending it in front of the stove. When the evening comes, I just can’t figure out where the whole day disappeared: my head is full of stories and my notebook of ideas for the months to come, memories are mixed up with projects in a suspended time, my own time. These are days to be spent in the kitchen to conquer new rhythms and good habits, such as cooking pots of beans and chickpeas in the wood fired oven or baking crusty bread for breakfast. I browse through new cookery books and I get excited for the upcoming months of winter, cold and frost, when I’ll taste new flavours and I’ll make them mine. I spend hours planning and dreaming, scribbling down plans to conquer the world, my world, on new notebooks, gifts of precious friends. The days in a bubble flow slow, but disappear quickly, they melt in your mouth like chocolate, leaving only the memory of a fragile sweetness. Here they are, waiting for you, you can sniff the fireworks in the air, but you do not see them yet. In front of you New Year, spangles, sparkling wine, lentils and cotechino, bingo, kisses and good wishes, all still concealed from your view. Christmas was just a few days ago, but if you turn back it has already disappeared, hidden by a veil of milky fog, you just hear remote chatters in the distance. It is like living in another dimension or in a misty countryside. I’ve always been lucky, first at school and then at work, as I’ve always had the chance to spend those days on holidays at home, like in a bubble.Īfter the festive meals, your relatives, your aunt’s kisses, gifts to wrap and unwrap, the mistletoe, the lights, the long happy tables where there’s always room for an extra chair, the round of greetings, the mass on Christmas morning with the chill outside of the church, the greeting cards, the phone calls and the messages, the icing sugar of a soft pandoro, the candied fruit of a panforte, the bags of frozen cappelletti that disappear into a bowl of steaming broth, the crackling fireplace, the smell of ragù that clings to your clothes, Last Christmas and Jingle bells, eventually, after all this, come the days in a bubble. They have soft edges, they pass by slow but disappear quickly. I call them the days in a bubble, those days ranging from Christmas to New Year’s Eve.
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