There is nothing that binds you closer to the territory as the customs of the family: those which age to unconsciousness and continued to tell an adult age, when you should be aware that vanishes into thin air as soon as he has acquired within the world of customs.
At some point this year, at the time when the sun bothering you with its rays and heat rages, one night at that time, my used to wake me and my brother when we were kids. It was all in what was a magical place for me, I saw only once a year that night.
To see him now, with the consciousness of an adult, not much magic. But once he had, and how it was!
Nothing is that the basement of my grandmother's house, access must go down a little that I considered too steep and that now seems more of a downhill. The depth of the room makes the most of the night remains in the dark basement, the deepest part, the one where I wandered for strange creatures, from which they came that indefinable sounds similar, in my fantasy, to mischievous goblins of the night, attributable, in reality, a set of country mice.
The custom which brought together most of my father's family in one night in late August was the annual preparation of the bottles of tomato sauce.
a long and tiring, to be carried out in a single night, without wasting a single minute, because the arrival of the first light would come disfattori, those who could make so much effort vain insect!
As children we were not allowed to approach the fire on which boiled in huge cauldrons piles and piles of crushed tomatoes. Nor was it allowed to stay in vicinity of the perfidious tritapomodori machine that in one second divided by the real gravy infinitesimally small scraps of poor tomato.
was given to us to crush the tomatoes and then put in cauldrons to boil. So me, my brother and my cousins \u200b\u200bgathered around the boxes of tomatoes and well washed with unmistakable precision bucavamo, tear and cut the tomatoes that we happened to shoot with the specific goal to hit each other with splashes of tomato pulp .
had begun the battle of the tomatoes, until last sketch!
one goal: to fill your neighbor's tomato sauce ...
An armistice was reached only to the cries of the parents, reminding us that children do not present the fleeting time or the precious nectar bright red.
to mark our times was the dominant voice of my grandmother, who taught the adults on the correct procedures to be followed to obtain a thick sauce and tasty, while controlling the corner of ' eye on the work of our children.
Mai stronger scent settled in my nostrils as that of raw tomato massacred in the hands of a child and could never bring me back as an adult other fragrance unconsciousness of childhood.
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