[Interlude]
First, we fry the onion and the garlic until they become translucent, like words whispered in the shadows.
Next, the chopped meat, the peeled tomatoes, the tomato concentrate, the basil, the salt, and the pepper.
In a bowl, we mix the ricotta, the mozzarella, the Parmesan
We fill up the cannelloni with the mixture of cheese, as if we were injecting loyalty into each tube.
We leave it to cook until the surface becomes golden, and the aromas fill up the air
The cannelloni, it was an institution.
An institution, every Sunday, in the family home.
And of all of these years, there's definitely one that I'll never forget.
A soft flame caresses the enormous copper pan in the kitchen.
Its half-open lid let out a smell of tomato sauce throughout the dining room.
The dean placed the cutlery on a long olive wood table.
The younger kids yelled out in the halls, a ball under their feet, imitating the celebrations of their idols of the Società Calcio Napoli.
In the living room, there were always guests, most commonly associates, or at least they seemed like it.
That day, in the basement of the house, a much less expected guest shared the space, far from the festivities that took place only a few feet away.
Here, below, a completely different story played out.
A story of fear and uncertainty.
A silent drama, under the symphony of laughter on the surface.
They were known for their hospitality.
But for some, the invitation to their table took a very different turn.