Memories

I'm in my nonna's kitchen. It's spring or summer and the sunlight is streaming through the window. A pot of soug is bubbling away on the hob throwing out its savoury scent of beef and tomatoes.

My nonna is patiently kneading dough. Arthritis and an accident in her 30s have left her hands painfully misshapen, yet she skilfully pulls and pushes the dough with her knuckles until it becomes elastic. I must be school-aged as I can see over the counter, mesmerised by the rhythm of her movements.

At last she rolls the dough into a long, thin sausage and begins cutting it into sections with a blunt knife. She takes each dumpling and shows me how to dent it into shape with a flick of my thumb. She tells me how she used to do this with my mother when she was my age.

I try copying her movements but mine look ungainly by comparison. But no matter, it'll all end up in the pot. She moves the finished gnocchi to a metal tray and covers them with a tea towel. The tray is a gaudy 70s affair, oranges, browns and greens form a geometric pattern against the plain cotton towel.

I beg her to cook them now and she laughs, tells me to enjoy the sunshine a while - we must wait for the sauce. I do as I'm told and sit on a rug in the yard she calls a garden, flicking through an old annual belonging to my mum.

After what seems like a lifetime she returns to the kitchen and drops the dumplings into the hot water. A minute or so later they bob to the surface, plump as pillows. Nonna drains them and adds a spoonful of the sauce. I sit at the table and add my Parmesan whilst she cuts some bread, "for the sauce" she explains.

We sit and eat in silence, devouring every last morsel.