“How often do you make fresh pasta?” she asks as I crack an egg over my well of flour. “Never.” She lets out a fake gasp of outrage. “I thought you were Italian.” I grab a pinch of flour and flick it at her face. With a giggle, she wipes her flour-speckled cheek. She ends up missing a spot, so I brush it away. A camera flash startles us both, and we look over to see Maria winking. She checks the photo before scurrying away with a promise to send me a copy.
