stinkerbell1
Gelato
Gelato in Italy. Is there anything more perfect? All those colors lined up neatly behind the glass. And the names of the flavors, like a poem: fragola, limone, frutti di bosco, pesca, melone, mente, cioccolato, stracciatella, nocciola, vaniglia, canella, tartufo, caramella, caffe, the words rolling around on your tongue while you decide which one you want to try. The person behind the counter asks you, “Prego?†and you make your choice, thinking, “Next time… next time, I’ll go for lemon, or mint. Or chocolate. Or chocolate and mint. Or coffee. Chocolate and coffee. Or hazelnut. Or…†and by the time you’re handed your cup full of gelato, you have what you’re going to order sorted out for the next several months, which is handy. But for now you have a cup, a tiny cup with a tiny spoon, and you pause to breathe it in, to inhale its scent, so perfectly light and sweet it’s what sugar ought to smell like, if sugar had any sense. And then you taste it. It’s nonsense, how something could manage to be that creamy and light and thick all at the same time, but there it is, the proof, the perfect, perfect proof, melting in your mouth.
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