Once the orecchiette was done, Nonna Angela, who had hardly given me two words since we started, sent me to the trattoria with a tub of fresh orecchiette pasta for the kitchen.
‘Buon giorno,’ I called as I walked in the back door of the restaurant.
Matteo lifted his head from a pile of garlic bulbs he was separating and gave me a curt nod.
‘Is Francesca here yet? She said we were going on a road trip today.’ I placed the pasta on the bench.
‘So I’d heard,’ Matteo replied. I could tell from his short tone he wasn’t thrilled about the idea. Why, I couldn’t imagine. I ignored him.
‘There you are, cousin,’ called Francesca as she walked through the beaded partition that separated the kitchen from the front of house. ‘You ready? Let’s go!’
Francesca was taking me to one of the local farms
