The kitchen is filled with a rare light that turns the darkest corner into a cosy nook. A nook the dog has made his own. And I am cutting. The simplest, most meditative slicing. Back and forth like the waves of the sea. But this is not my kitchen. I have travelled over sea and land to get here. To this kitchen. This street. This town. A small Italian seaside resort that only ever draws a sigh from those who ask where I am staying. Mornings of hushing waves along an endless sea misted beach that hides the horizon. Evenings of bustling bars, caffés, and gelaterias along the high street. Time filled with constant chattering, a noise that never jars. Such is Italian life. But the kitchen, this kitchen, a haven of silence, echoes only with the gentle action of my knife against vegetal flesh. Like the lapping of waves.
Inspirational. You should cross half of Europe to the Adriatic coast more often.
Wonderful!! X
Fabulous Louis! I was right there in Italy with you! 😘