don,t count on it

At home I never put sugar in my coffee and I always make it myself.  In Italy, I get in my car, rattle out of the driveway and up an incline in the road to the bar, order a cornetto and cappuccino, whack the pack of sugar against my wrist like an addict that doesn,t want a grain of it getting stuck in the paper, and then pour it in, watching the sugar peak on its raft of foamy milk before it sinks to the bottom of’the cup.
At home I won,t swim because I feel there is no bathing suit big enough to hide me.  This morning I dropped my clothes by the side of a reservoir on the side of a hill in Pien di Marte and floated on the water with nothing.  

It,s important never to assume that everything will always be the same.

Last night we pulled a table through the front door to the top of our many stone steps and had a sit down dinner with Nanna and Morag and no pork.   Ferdinand is now a pork shunner.  I served a platter of fried eggplant rounds with sautéed San tropea onion slivers and cherry tomatoes and basil, one of sweet gorgonzola with a side of marinated artichoke hearts, a platter of raw carrots, celery, fennel and cucumber with lemon and mint, a small bowl of balsamic pickled onions, plain pasta with olive oil and herbs that I picked from round the back, a basket of warmed piadine, and a plate of leftover cold roast chicken.  I bought a cantaloupe but forgot about it and remembered the tiramisu.
Ferdinand is ten.

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