There was a time -- and it is not so long ago -- when eating together was not a special event. It was simply life. In the Gargano, those outdoor feasts were the centre of the world.
The Barter and the Community
As a child, my father had an arrangement with the countryside neighbour who kept animals. They would barter -- a lamb in exchange for rabbits, chickens, sometimes even wild ducks. It was an economy of trust, of neighbourliness, of mutual respect that had lasted for generations.
When the lamb arrived, it was cooked. And when something special was cooked, anyone nearby was invited. There were no formal guest lists -- you arrived, you brought something, you ate together.
Twenty, Twenty-Five People
The feasts of my childhood often had twenty, twenty-five people. Wooden tables joined together, improvised benches, white tablecloths that flew in the wind. The children ran around, the elders told stories, the women cooked and served without ever sitting down.
The menu was always the same in its structure: cured meat and cheese starters, baked pasta or orecchiette with ragu, lamb, homemade desserts. And wine -- always red wine, in ceramic jugs.
"Just home cooking, love and good company. Those moments do not come back, but their fragrance stays in every dish I cook."
What Is Being Lost
Today those feasts are rare. Modern life has dispersed families, neighbours no longer know each other as they once did, time for cooking seems always shorter. It is a real loss, not just a sentimental one.
But food has a long memory. Every time I cook Sunday ragu or roast lamb, that community returns. Not in the physical people -- but in the flavour, the smell, the slow ritual of cooking. And somehow, everything is still there.
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