In the small town of Palombara Sabina, in the province of Rome, time seems to have stopped in the 1950s, an era when Sunday lunch with the family was sacred, and grandmothers prepared fresh pasta and ragu.
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Forty kilometers from Rome, lost on top of a hill in the foothills of the Apennines, there is Palombara Sabina, a village where past times and a hint of nostalgia echo, thanks to a team of women, now retired, who guard and pass on to anyone interested, directly in their kitchens, the secret of making homemade pasta to perfection.
Chiara Nicolanti and her grandmother, Nerina, founded Nonna Live seven years ago, quite spontaneously. "It happened very quickly. When I got pregnant I was spending more time at home, so one day I took a picture of Grandma preparing her delicacies and posted it on Facebook with the caption, 'Who wants to cook with Grandma today?' The post went viral within minutes. So many people asked me if it was possible to make fresh pasta together with Nerina. That's how Nonna Live was born." Chiara explains to The New York Times.
Chefs began to arrive, attracted by the natural craftsmanship of grandmothers, guests who were melancholy about the flavors of their childhood, and soon afterwards tourists from all over the world, looking for unique, unrepeatable and genuine experiences to add to their travel itineraries. Then again, foreigners are known to be particularly interested in Italian gastronomy, rooted in the country's culture and history. To date, there are about 5,000 visitors a year. The preparation of handmade pasta, once a common practice, has almost disappeared. Chiara Leone, a longtime friend of Nicolanti's, recounts that her mother stopped making it precisely in the 1960s, a period of significant change and claims for women's emancipation. With increasing awareness and women entering the workforce, many household tasks, including cooking, began to be overlooked.
The visit (approx. 95 euros) begins with a discovery of the town, includes a walk through the picturesque cobblestone streets, and continues with an inspection of the 11th-century Savelli Castle, where the majestic skyline of the Capital can be seen from the watchtower. The heart of the locality comes alive again through the eyes of outsiders, accustomed to completely contrasting scenery and landscapes.
After the tour, the group gathers around the table of one of Nonna Live's instructors, Angela Curci, 73, who is one of many. Each participant usually finds a station in front of him or her equipped with a cutting board, a long, thin rolling pin, pasta cutter and all the necessary ingredients. "You need one hundred grams of flour for each egg, if you are eight you are going to use eight eggs and eight hundred grams of flour," the teachers recite to their students, aided by the translator. Basic, but certainly not obvious, information is succeeded by more complex explanations, the correct technique for folding the pastry sheet on the rolling pin, for example. Or how to get different thicknesses depending on the shape you want to make; fettuccine, then seasoned with fresh tomato sauce; farfalle, oil, crushed garlic and almonds; raviolo, strictly filled with ricotta and spinach.
Some students demonstrated hidden skills; they were able, quite naturally, to knead, roll, and finally bring to life small bow ties by pinching with their thumb and middle finger each square made from the previously carefully mixed mixture. "It was easier than I thought," says Eric Lawhorn, a 33-year-old police officer from Houston. The activity is really suitable for everyone, one of the housewives, Angela De Paolis, 68, confirms: "I have three grandchildren, and there is no nicer thing than making pasta with them, rather than parking them in front of the television and video games. I get teary-eyed when I see them getting busy concentrating, I still remember when my grandmother taught me how to put my hands in the dough."
This is proof that rural Italy fights to survive "handmade pasta is the symbol of Sunday family lunch, while now people prefer to go to restaurants," declares Leone, who grew up in the 1990s in her grandmother's house. "I remember large, thin yellow sheets drying on cotton sheets in the bedroom, the smell of ragu, my grandmother's wrinkled, floured hands with a rolling pin under her arm; she would hug me, and I would sink my face into her apron hoping those moments would never end. I hope that new generations will be lucky enough to experience what I experienced; it is what keeps the flame of hope alive."
