Wood Fired

It was the kind of cold that makes snot run fast, fingertips burn purple, thick ugly hats fashionable. Even this late in winter, with wet, mushroomy soil scenting the air, the melody of water rushing downhill joining full rapid rivers, and cherry trees pregnant and giddy, springtime seemed months away.

The oven’s sunset glow, now only half as roasting as Dante’s prescription for flesh, illuminated her silhouette, a silver helmet of old lady hair. Wiping flour from hands gnarled as ancient Vernaccia vines, she bustled to the glass door set with heavy iron knobs and hinges, a wide smile warm, beckoning, uncharacteristic for a Roman of a certain age.

With whip fast Italian, who knows which dialect, her arms flail towards a large basket of drying biscotti the color of tan nylons, their crispy edges bulging with almonds; tradizionale, naturalmente. My dumb smile, nodding head and childish slaughtering of even the most rudimentary phrases earned me two cookies and a wave out the door.

But, really, I just wanted to check out her oven.