When she started wishing for it she was sure it was not going to happen. It’s just how things go: you wish for them to become real, but you know they won’t. So there was no reason why this time it was going to work. She only wanted to stay home, but it seemed everyone wanted her to show up.
She was going through a phase in her life where social life was hard. She only kept a few friendships alive, but other than that she stayed at home all the time and avoided any occasion that anyone could take…
The second house they lived in was her favorite.
A spartan house for most people, but not for her. She had never had many possessions and people used to say she was cold and detached, as if carrying little baggage was an irrefutable sign of her incapability to love.
Her boyfriend was looking for the perfect house, so they moved a lot. He had never expressed a predilection for any of the houses they had lived in, but he was also not interested in her preference.
That house was quiet. When she was lying on the bed, alone, she could…
Lisa lifts the blind a tiny bit, just enough to check if the sun is still high. Her mother told her to stay inside until five, but she can’t read the clock yet, so she goes to the window to see if any of her friends are already out. She goes back to sit on her grandmother’s bed, making the rusty springs squeak, but her mum doesn’t mind as long as she doesn’t wake her little sisters up.
Lisa lifts the blind once again and this time she sees her friend Rosa in the courtyard. She’s standing in the shadow…
Marta had always wondered why her name was not spelled as all the other Marthas she knew, with an h.
When she was about 8 or 9 she asked her mother and she told her that she was named after her great grandmother who had arrived in New York City from Italy many years before.
She was so fascinated by the story her mother told her that she immediately started saving money for her homecoming.
One day, Marta realized that she had collected enough to afford a round trip ticket and a few weeks in Italy. …
Rule number one of traveling in non-western countries: only eat in restaurants, preferably recommended by reliable guides. And only drink from sealed bottles.
These fragrant pakoras are too good. I can see my mother’s look right now, horrified. I slide my necklace so it hangs on my back and I don’t dip it in the mint yogurt sauce.
I bite into another one; it’s different, even spicier if it’s humanly possible. I look into the newspaper bag, it’s so oily that the words have become an illegible blot of ink. There are two more fried balls left, I think for…
The oil is popping in the pan.
Attenta, it’ll burn.
She pours the tomato,
summer freshness wafting from the glass bottle.
Let them sizzle and crackle together
until the oil is bright orange
and the tomato sauce is thick and
their smell has become one.
She confidently taps the shell on the edge of the pan.
A translucent blob coats everything
quickly turning white.
A sprinkle of salt leaves its grainy mark
on the yellow dome
that will remain whole,
the fluid heart of a mushy cloud
with golden brown borders.
Throughout my childhood, my sister and I have had Saturday dinner at my grandparents’ house. I still have very vivid memories of the dishes my grandmother used to cook; uova al pomodoro (fried eggs with tomato) were a favorite.