I Vicini

Tucked high up and away from most other Centro Storico residents off vicolo San Nicola, I met an elder woman tending to tasks inside her cantina.

Her woolen layers ward off the early morning damp that seep into the cavernous stone grottoes in this ancient hilltop village. Her calico cat patiently waits nearby for breakfast.

Below, il vicino strolls the low grade of via Fontana just out side zia Concetta's front door. Signore D'Angelo is a cestaio or basket weaver and has kindly gifted me a few of his recent wares.

zia Concetta cooks

Zia Concetta came to collect me one cold morning to sit with her as she prepared us a midweek pranzo.

Inside her warm kitchen the unmistakable aroma of my childhood filled the room. Atop her wood stove ragú simmered in a small cast-iron pot.

With camera in hand, I watched closely as she finger-rolled fresh macaroni on a large wooden board. L'Cingul. Growing up on Long Island I never witnessed fresh pasta made by hand. When I asked her if I could help she gently declined my offer.

"But why not, zia?" "It tastes better with only one pair of hands."