Yesterday I decided to make cannelloni for dinner, a recipe that fills me with memories and aromas of home.I started by preparing the filling. I sautéed fresh spinach with a little onion and garlic, then mixed it with ricotta and seasonings. While I let the mixture cool, I prepared the doughs one by one. I like to make them homemade, thin and very soft, just as my grandmother taught me.

Visiting my friend's farm is like entering a small paradise where nature offers its finest gifts. Every corner is a surprise, a testament to the care with which the land is cultivated.As soon as you arrive, you are greeted by the sweetness of ripe mandarins, hanging heavy among green leaves. Just reach out and feel their sun-warmed skin, ready to be enjoyed at once.

I return to this park like someone returning to the past, my steps slow but steady. My hands tremble, yes, but they don't forget. Here, right here, under the shade of this old tree, I learned to look at the world without running.

Every morning, as soon as the sun begins to warm the earth, I step out onto the patio with a cup of coffee in my hand and my heart full of gratitude. My small garden is my refuge, my corner of peace amidst the daily hustle and bustle.

In the small trattoria on the canal, every afternoon a faint aroma of coffee and cocoa wafted through the worn wooden tables. That autumn afternoon, Martina sat by the window, the breeze bringing golden leaves dancing across the glass. She had waited all day for this moment: a slice of homemade tiramisu, as fluffy as a cloud and scented with the whisper of mascarpone cream.

A white cup rests serenely, like a warm sigh in the dance of coffee. The cream swirls on its top like a distracted cloud, drawing the soul of the morning.Behind, silent cups daydream, reflecting the soft lights of a still-young day. The sugar packets, like unread letters, await their fate in subdued colors.