Foxes Hill

Foxes Hill Parte 7

It is only in this way that the flavors are enhanced, and the sandwich is tastier: it is the so-called exception to the rule, and raw ham deserves it all.

"We haven't closed the lid of the matrella!" I say, putting my hand to my forehead, "And that's why immediately grandmother noticed the fresh bread already cut!".

"The trouble is that we didn't have to close it, because the bread still hot with the lid closed would have created condensation, and this would have made it stringy and difficult to chew; bad to eat!"

As we walk, we pass in front of the oven: it is on the course, just beyond where Cappella Street, the road of the stable of Cerasella, comes out.

"Is this the oven?" I ask, and Uncle nods.

In the square, we meet more people; everyone greets us and someone stops us, to chat or ask questions.

Just out of pure curiosity, someone, for the innate desire to know your stuff, asks questions about me, that I find rather impertinent.

Everyone asks me the same questions: who are you, where are you from, you eat donkey meat, and anyway they smile; and I do not like this; They make me feel important, even though, and I have already learned this, they do not give a damn about who you are and where you come from; it is just to talk: they'll forget you right away.

After an hour we go home; we enter fearfully, and we find grandmother quiet and busy in her chores: the anger has passed.

The handkerchief on his head is in place; together, we breathe a sigh of relief.

"But why did you get angry for so little before?" Uncle says, turning to her.

"I was already angry; this morning, after the bread, I had also prepared a focaccia (flat bread) to send it to the oven together; I had to prepare her quickly, because I was afraid that at any moment the baker's boy might arrive.

When he came, I gave him this to bake too with the recommendation to bring it back to me with the bread.

Well! He brought the bread, but not the focaccia.

"There was a problem: send to take her later in the morning!", he said; that's what really pissed me off, because I wanted that you two to find her when you woke up!"

What can I say, Uncle first, we hugged her, and she immediately walked away, and ordered me to go to the oven to get her focaccia.

Quick and without waiting for anything else, I went out; running, in a moment I arrived at the oven.

There are still people outside, and everyone, chatting, waiting their turn.

Before asking, I caught my breath, thinking in the meantime that I would still have to wait my turn.

With a "Good morning", I greeted all those present who, politely and in chorus, replied.

Even if they speak in dialect, I realized that they are not all there for the bread; many are passing through and have stopped only to exchange a few words.

Slowly, and without giving the impression of wanting to step over someone, I approached the entrance.

The scent, that pleasant scent of freshly baked bread, that I already knew, hit me.

Full baskets everywhere, on the floor and on a shelf, waiting to be delivered or picked up.

In a corner, resting on the ground on a wooden plank, several still steaming pans of already cooked focaccias; the characteristic and famous Apulian focaccia: soft and full of crushed tomatoes and of one sprinkle of oregano, and which, of course, should be eaten still hot.