As you would expect, an Italian Christmas becomes a true Christmas in the kitchen. When I was a child, Christmas was my grandmother’s time to shine (or I should say, to shine even brighter, because the woman was a goddess in the kitchen all year round): she would prepare cappelletti by hand, twisting and turning them one by one, with the skill and the artistry only women of that generation – she was born in 1917 – had.

I would supervise and help, in my own way, most likely by sitting at the table and making sure they tasted the way she wanted: I always loved fresh, raw cappelletti and ravioli, and still today, I cannot resist the temptation to eat a couple before boiling them, when I prepare them myself. When I do it, my thoughts always go to her and those warm, fragrant afternoons of long ago, and I do miss her even more dearly than every other moment. And they never taste quite as nice as hers.