Because Bess has the most courage out of all of us she had already ventured to the Mercato Centrale and consequently met the Tomato Woman. She is precious. I'd imagine shorter than my mother, who is 4'10". The Tomato Woman reminds me of a mother-mouse from The Wind in the Willows, or some fanciful and aging childhood tale. She wears a navy cap, similar to the sea-faring folk from the coast. She is called the Tomato Women because, although she sells a wide variety of vegetables and spice, her tomatoes are outstanding. I've never ate a tomato before eating a plump and pint-sized pomodori, cherry tomato, which are grouped in bunches still slinging to a partial vine. I am not sure if she remembers me or not; I've been to her stall every time I go to the market.
Actually, I assume it's easy to remember an Asian young man in this vast Italian-looking (if there is such a thing) populous. The Cheese Lady remembers me because I stop by often and buy a block of cheese for a few euro. She also has samples and I'm normally hungry. Even the bread sister know me. Today when I asked for il pane di toscano, molto piccolo, the older sister pointed the exact size and type of bread I usually get before smiling at me. I could be mistaken and have fallen victim to Italian charm, though.
Dinner tonight is potato gnochi in homemade pesto over a bed of fried zucchini and cherry tomato slices.
No comments:
Post a Comment