Bewitched

16

MUMTAZ

The warm Tuscan sun bathed us in light as we stood in Piper's grandparents' kitchen, laughing uncontrollably while her grandfather, Paolo, dramatically waved his hands in mock frustration.

"No, no, no! Not like that! You're stirring it all wrong!" he scolded me in his thick Italian accent, though his eyes were twinkling with amusement.

Sasha snickered behind me as I fumbled with the whisk. "Told you it's not as easy as it looks."

"Shut up," I muttered, stifling my own laugh as I focused on the mixture. The egg yolks and cheese were supposed to blend seamlessly into a creamy sauce for the carbonara, but I clearly wasn't getting it right.

"Piper! Come show your friend how to do this!" Paolo shouted in mock dismay.

Piper, standing beside her grandmother at the sink, turned and grinned at us. "You're on your own, babe. Nonno's kitchen, Nonno's rules."

Paolo shook his head, pretending to be exasperated as he grabbed the whisk from me. "You, bella, are hopeless," he teased, fixing the sauce with a few expert movements.

I raised my hands in surrender. "Fine, fine, I'll stick to eating it."

"That, you are good at," Sasha chimed in, earning an elbow to the ribs from me.

"Hey!" she yelped, but her playful smile never faltered.

We spent the rest of the afternoon under Paolo's careful instruction, learning how to make a proper Italian carbonara. He was a stickler for tradition, scolding us every time we deviated from the recipe by even the smallest fraction.

"Americanized carbonara... bah!" he would say, waving his hands dramatically. "Cream in the sauce? No! Only eggs and cheese!"

We laughed until our stomachs hurt, making a mess of the kitchen but enjoying every moment. It felt like one of those rare, perfect days where everything seemed to align – good food, great company, and the feeling of being completely at ease.

After we finished cooking, Piper's grandmother, Maria, invited us outside to help with the chickens. Sasha and I exchanged hesitant glances but followed anyway, because how could we say no?

We were soon laughing like children, gathering eggs, feeding the chickens, and chasing the little ones around the coop.

"Don't drop that one, Mumtaz!" Piper yelled, watching me struggle to hold onto a particularly energetic chicken.

"I'm trying!" I shrieked, the chicken flapping wildly in my arms as I fought to keep a hold of it.Paolo leaned on the fence, shaking his head with a smile. "City girls," he muttered under his breath, loud enough for all of us to hear.

By the time we finished up with the chickens, the sun had begun to set, casting a golden glow over the Tuscan hills. We took dozens of pictures, capturing every moment of our day—the food, the chickens, the countryside. I felt a deep sense of contentment, the kind that sinks into your bones and makes you feel truly alive.

Later that evening, we gathered around the dinner table, savoring the fruits of our labor. The carbonara was perfect, just as Paolo had promised it would be, and the conversation flowed easily. Maria told stories from their early days of marriage, while Paolo threw in a few dramatic embellishments, making us laugh until our sides hurt.

As the night wound down, we said our goodbyes, promising to come back before we left Italy. Piper's grandparents hugged us tightly, waving as we drove off into the night, heading back to the airport to catch our flight to Milan.