My neighbor’s name is Luigi. The people on our block call him the godfather, but I don’t think he’s aware of it. Every Friday or Saturday afternoon, I’ll get a call from him saying that he has once again found himself with too much pasta bolognese, Italian wedding soup, focaccia, or any other number of Italian leftovers in quantities that could easily feed ten or more people. “I’ve got some pasta you can’t refuse.”
This is my cue. I carefully pick one of my loaves of homemade sourdough (based on a recipe that was never locked down until Luigi approved of course – after 8 months of trials) and mosey on over. Sometimes it’s a quick exchange through a propped door so the cat doesn’t get out. Other times its talk and dinner in the garden – a carefully tended mosaic of herbs and vegetables straight out of Sunset magazine.