Life in front of fornacelle

"All the chimneys were smoking. The smell of fried potatoes with pickled peppers, of chickpeas and beans boiling in round, reddish terracotta pots, of cornmeal pizza with fritters baked in copper pans with fire below and above, spread everywhere. In Oscata, no one had breakfast with coffee or milk. To fight the cold, substantial food was needed. And for us kids, a small glass of wine was not frowned upon.

The daylight hours were few. In a blink, darkness would fall. There was still no electric light. Those long evenings were eagerly awaited by us children. We would gather in a circle around the hearth to soak up a bit of warmth. Uncle Salvatore was ready to tell the "li cunti" (stories). He was very good at it. He mimed every detail, improvising as he went along. He told story after story until there was no saliva left in his mouth. By then, words were pushed out only by the desire to keep us awake and not throw us so soon into Morpheus' arms. We all kept our knees tightly together. My elbows nearly pierced his knees. Dozens of nailed boots were placed in a circle around the dim little fire. And when there was no more space, quarrels would begin. No matter how we pushed, there was no small empty spot for all those boots. My uncle grabbed "lu iataturo", made of metal or wood, and, touching each boot tip one by one, began the usual rhyme: "Pis, pis pisilli, fiori di cannilla, cannilla e culusì, culusì sant' Martì, tira picchiò, tira picchiò tira lu pére a te". The last foot touched had to be pulled away.".