Early December is the time when I begin to think about making pasta by hand. Yes, one can buy everything in the frozen section of any supermarket, but I want the ritual that will connect me with my past, my present and even may be taken to the future by my grandchildren. And so it is preparation time, the quiet time with the ingredients and my memories.

One of my favorite stories is of time spent in a now closed restaurant in picturesque Cesenatico called Macondo (after the magical village from One hundred years of solitude of Gabriel García Márquez). We went there because Macondo was the antithesis of a restaurant - it was away from the main tourist drag along the canal, the two self appointed chefs were childhood friends of the fisherman who provided the daily catch and then there were a couple of local musicians, also friends, who we were told will stop by whenever they can. There was as much spontaneity and genuinity as one could wish for.