I grew up in a seaside town and here I find myself after a few years.
The Navy will fall asleep, silent and shy and resumed his slumber. He closes his eyes for a long winter and apart from some German walking around dazed, on the waterfront just feel the sound of waves crashing on the rocks and the voices of the fishermen who come down to earth from their small boat at sunset with their barrels and buckets full of thoughts.
I always thought that Christmas special in store for every person of color at different times of their lives. As a child, my Christmas was tinged with blue, blue as the sea water, which seemed entrarti hundred feet from the shore into the house, blue like my grandmother wove the wool A. folded in front of the fireplace, while the eyes moist with memories I told old stories and legends, like the blue plate limoge with appetizers of mozzarella in little stars that seemed like magic to the day before.
winter I used to, in the afternoon after the tasks, lie down on the edge of the pond, all wrapped up with Matisse my black cat to guard my safety, crouched on his belly to make me purr. It was the time when the frog had come to live there solitary and sometimes in spite of croaking felt it was time to hibernate. I stood there for quite a while with his eyes open looking at the immense sky. And each time I wondered how many ways could have a cloud cover blue, now a big boot, then an oak, a small house with two children.
watched small flocks calm marked the rain and the aftermath will be amazed to dream, occasionally stroking my beautiful cat, until my grandmother at one point came out from the door of our little white house as the inoltratasi milk and called me on the street with a loud voice. Of course it took Matisse in her arms and followed her home. I remember his sweet face, with cheeks round and red, hidden behind dark handkerchief, his posture and graceful curve as the white bell at dusk, his bony hand that held mine, smiling while looking for delicacies potatoes can be enjoyed by the fireplace.
The crackling embers of those minutes marked as an important ritual, then as a fortune teller removed from the hot ashes to let the potatoes cook slowly and with a breath takes away the ashes remained. The plane peeled, because we had all the time in the world, as if not to burn either, but I still remember the smoke slowly against the flow in his hands. He told me of the old oil tanker sunk during the war and the fallen angel, the Christmas of 1943 and the bottomless sea, then I broke a piece and hands it to me as a golden nugget.
Lying on the big chair wicker with my red shoes on the fireplace, wise and delight that I was focused questions and follow its slow movements. Matisse continued to cast out the window and wood that I could see a blue robe was preparing to dress the stars. Yes, this is the color of my Christmas.
BAKED POTATOES WITH PESTO AND SWEET CACIOTTA
Ingredients:
4 large potatoes soft dough
50 g butter
10 grams of pesto Genovese
50 gr. caciotta of sweet
Take the potatoes and clean them well under running water with the aid of a toothbrush. Then place them on wax paper for about 40 minutes at 180 degrees, brush with butter and pour some water into the pan.
When you see that the dough is quite soft and fork no resistance, Drive them from the oven and marked with a cross and a knife to peel them gently mentioned. Using a spoon, begin to dig to the center to create a Conchetta.
Put to melt the remaining butter and brush the inside of the bowl well, then add the pesto alla Genovese and pieces of caciotta. Bake at 180 degrees, 15 minutes after the oven and serve piping hot.
... it's a very good starry night ....
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