“Hekté, come here.”
“But Nonna, the tomatoes-”
“Can wait. Come, sit,” Nonna gestured to the stool beside her with a floured hand.
Abandoning the knife and basket of tomaotes, I sat next to Nonna and watched her knead pasta for a few silent minutes. Her skillful hands worked the dough from a shaggy mess into a smooth ball, ready for rolling and cutting. She paused before she grabbed her rolling pin and turned to me again.
“Boy, you’re a lot like pasta right now.”
“I- What?” I asked.
“You are a crumbly pile of potential, waiting for life to knead you and press you into shape. You could be hundreds of different things in the end, but for now you’re just the beginning.”
I fidgeted with a scrap of dough infront of me.
“So, you don’t think I should go to Stragosa?”
Nonna laughed, “No, no! Between you and me, I think you need it. But don’t tell your Matri, she’ll start crying again. Always a sensitive thing, she was…”
I stood up and wandered over to the fireplace where a pot of cold water sat. Nonna began rolling out the pasta while I stoked the fire and placed the pot over it. I moved back to the cutting board and contined to cut tomatoes for dinner. The summer heat forbade stewing pasta sauce, but that never stopped Nonna from eating tomatoes every day anyway. Diced tomatoes and anchovies with pasta was a good dish.
Nonna looked my way again, “I think I can get your Matri to postpone the marriage proposal for a bit. Should give you time to grow up a little,” She chuckled, “Benalus knows, you need it!”
Nonna cackled at my objection and deftly cut and formed the farfalle. I laughed a bit myself and helped her bring the little pastas over to the boiling pot, where we dumped them in.
“Ti voglio bene, Nonna.”