La Pasta

The first house we rented near Milan was a four-story monstrosity with a mansard roof, all created from concrete. The absence of rafters meant we had a vast open space to set up a model train set and my sewing machine under the skylights. Occasionally I would catch sight of “Balcony Bill” and his wife who lived in the adjacent apartment – especially when their kitchen light was on. I soon discovered that every day , around 11.30 a.m., she would start to make pasta for lunch. A large wooden board covered the table and she began to work eggs into the mountain of flour, her fork methodically working round and round until she could begin to knead. Eventually she rolled the dough with a very skinny rolling pin, then folded it and rolled again. When she was happy with the texture she gave it a final fold and used a huge sharp knife to cut narrow slices, shaking out the ribbons and dusting them with flour before hanging them to dry on pegs – imagine a very tall mug tree. Half an hour later she’d boil the broth or stock and drop them in. Balcony Bill would appear ready to sprinkle lots of Parmesan cheese on top and devour a large bowl full for lunch. Dessert, taken on the balcony, was always fruit – a peach, a couple of apricots or nespole (lowquats) followed by a cigarette. Then he’d disappear again, leaving Mrs. Bill to clear up. It was a fascinating insight into the locals way of life, but we never knew their names nor they ours. Simply a nod or a wave was the extent of our conversation – although one day Mrs.Bill shouted a question – “Hai vista la lenzuole?” Have you seen my bed sheet? It had disappeared from her balcony, taken by the wind, never to be seen again!