Nonna's old house was situated alongside a narrow cobblestone road; Walk out the front door onto the narrow street, cross it, press yourself against a stone ledge to avoid the passing cars and Vespas and follow it to any set of ashen steps. After a rain we would pluck slugs and snails off their rocky facade and peer over the edge for anything new. Nearby was once a macelleria - beside it a set of private stables one that housed a donkey - next to it a fire pit, a large iron pot and an old woman. She would render unsellable animals parts to collect the fat she needed to make soap and boil it down.
We watched - her teeth were black and gnarled, as was her skirt. A sweater, faded from years of use, draped her small shoulders and an apron with tomato stains rested on a wooded footstool. Her legs were surprisingly smooth, probably from years of climbing the stony hill and her feet, tucked into cork wedges with jewelled bands held her steady. And she slowly stirred the mixture that bubbled in the black iron pot with what looked like a large broom handle.
We could see macabre foam curl up on the surface - it billowed and ascended carrying the added scent in droplets.
The boys nearby would tease us with tales of gypsies stealing children, the donkey would bray at them each time they passed.
And the old woman smiled at us...she always smiled at us.
words © malai carrara
Photography © nausher banaji
