In the library of the long-legged man (well-ordered, comprehensive, quite wonderful), I came across this photograph by Elliot Erwitt:
|The Collegiata di Santa Maria Assunta, San Gimignano,|
I spent a distant birthday in this place, just off to your left. A theatre troupe would practice on the steps in the afternoons and I'd sit and watch them while rekindling my love for ice cream.
I think of places in Italy and associate them with ice cream flavours. Bologna is blackberry, Assisi: candied orange peel and fig. San Gimignano is pistachio, served by a friendly white-haired man with no English, but we understood each other just fine.
Before my trip, Aida invited me for breakfast and gave me a copy of Elizabeth David's Of Pageants & Picnics, to read on the plane. I thought of her as I sat on that shell-shaped piazza in Sienna, which is lemon and lime.
After she died, Braam gave me her ice cream machine. Italian: of course!
No instruction booklet.
But research reveals that the machine's paddle is called a dasher. I'm liking that, a lot.
Experiment 1: mango/chili/mint
Experiment 2: avocado/banana/honey
The gelato of my dreams.
There is a freezer in my future.