
A sunlit stone courtyard opens onto rolling green hills and a slender cypress tree, an ochre farmhouse with shuttered windows rising behind wooden pasta racks strung with pale ribbons of tagliatelle. An orange tabby cat naps on a stone bench beside pots of geraniums and lavender, while a bird pair perches in the olive tree overhead. At a rustic table, three women roll dough with wooden pins, one laughing as she works flour into a fresh batch, another cutting neat squares of ravioli beside a basket of brown eggs. More coils of pasta rest on a second table, and a bowl of flour and loose eggs sit within easy reach. Garlic and onions hang drying from the eaves of the house behind them. The ravioli squares are already laid out in tidy rows, each one a small tile waiting to be lifted free.
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