Family Kitchen II
The kitchen of the house is the heart of it. Each meal was a time of laughter and the sharing of stories. The washroom here is off the kitchen and dining area. I remember washing the dishes in this narrow room. From this vantage point I could still hear the stories being told and though the adults thought we were out of hearing range – well we weren’t.
It was usually after the meals that my families’ exploits were relived over a glass of grappa or limoncello. My Father was a very good raconteur. His climbing and cycling adventures set in the towns of Spilimbergo, Frisanco, Barcis, Conegliano, Chimolais, Longarone, Cortina D’Ampezzo, Treviso and always Venezia. Repeated often, became a focal point of my teenage rebellion. Rolling my eyes I tried to avoid hearing the same story over and over again by either ignoring my father or leaving the room altogether. But told often enough in those pre-teen years, they are lovingly locked in my memories of him.
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