The hills are alive with the scent of magic

Claudia unlocked the ancient wooden door. She pushed the door open, its rusty hinges creaking loudly in resistance, and, stooping, stepped inside the tiny stone house, dust drifting onto her shoulders from the doorframe.

It had been years since she’d visited the place, and the return was bittersweet. Nonna had been sick for a while–she’d never fully recovered from the loss of Nonno—but it was still incredibly sad when she passed. Nonna herself hadn’t visited the cottage in the hills for a long while, choosing to stay in the apartment above the shop that Nonno had managed when he was alive, which was closer to the city. The current owners had kindly allowed her to continue staying there after the business had changed hands. Nonna was grateful as it was closer to the sea and the church and to where Nonno was put to rest.

It was like stepping back in time, back to when they were both still alive, walking through the rooms of the old stone building. The exact age of it was uncertain, each generation adding their guesses and assumptions to its narrative. But what was certain was that it had been in the family for several hundreds of years.

Claudia trod softly through the cramped space, each room inspiring a burst of recollection from when she used to visit here with mama and papa. For last, she saved the room that contained her most adored memories: the kitchen. It was at the back of the cottage, with a door extending from its other end into a vast and overgrown garden that had once been Nonna’s pride and joy, and bursting with fresh produce.

Nonna’s cooking was the best Claudia had ever tasted, and she always managed to produce something new for the family to try: from curries, pot pies, quiche and roasts of every kind, to decadent cheesecakes, pastries, meringues and warmed puddings.

The kitchen seemed the most aged room in the altogether ancient house. It hadn’t changed at all from how Claudia remembered it. Dozens of differently sized pots and pans hung from the ceiling, with a large and stained wooden bench centred in the middle of the room, surrounded by chairs of various sizes and styles, and an old stone oven in one corner.

It was the oven to which Claudia now shifted her attention, appreciating anew its rough stone frame that was built into the walls of the kitchen itself. It was the heart of the house; it had nourished those within it, in both food and warmth, for countless generations.

Claudia pulled a well-worn letter from inside her jacket, smoothed out its creases, and stared at the neat curls of Nonna’s handwriting. Then, after giving the oven another curious look, Claudia went to empty her car of the few possessions she had brought and set about cleaning and making the place her own.

******

Upon Nonna’s death, Claudia was informed she had inherited the little stone cabin in the hills. With it, she was told she would also inherit the great family secret. At this, Claudia had become weary.

However, upon receiving a letter written by her late grandmother, this apprehension relaxed into a bemused puzzlement. If the letter contained all the skeletons her family had to hide, well, maybe it was worth ignoring the fact Nonna may have been turning a little mad towards the end of her life, Claudia thought, for Nonna had written:

My dearest Claudia,

Do not grieve my passing, for I am simply moving on to the next world; one I know will be full of the magic I have already tasted in this life. I bestow to you the secret of this earthly magic, so that you may share in it, like I was by my mother. It is a long-kept secret that is as old as our beloved cottage in the hill; a place you visited many times as a child, and is now bequeathed to you.

The stone oven that sits in the cottage’s kitchen is more than what it seems; it operates as a regular oven, but it also has the ability to transport whatever is placed inside it to others that are miles, or even hundreds of miles, away. I know the idea seems a little mad at first, but bear with me…

The oven is is one of a set that was created by an ancient stone-master who worked and travelled widely and eventually disappeared under mysterious circumstances, so even after the hundreds of years that the oven has been in the house, we cannot be certain of all the locations it links up with.

You may recall that, on many occasions, I fed the family meals that were uncommon or strange. So many of the foods you all enjoyed most were dishes that I suspect had arrived through the oven from Asia, England, the Middle East or other parts of dear Italia, among many other places, I don’t even know.

But, this oven has also served as more than a means of culinary exchange and a taste of the world beyond the hills where it resides. During wartime, it was used as a means of communication and spreading goodwill. Messages had to be baked in cakes or loaves of bread, as newspapers and letters quickly scalded, and more than once, were suspected to be the cause of devastating fires. Similarly, it was quickly realised that use of the ovens to evacuate children—who were small enough to fit inside—from war-torn areas, was not a good idea.

I remember a long time ago when my own Nonna, bless her, once served us a flatbread, dressed only with a thin tomato sauce, a few shards of cheese and herbs. Our family had all sat and stared at this strange sight, all wondering if perhaps this was a sign of dear Nonna losing her mind (as I suspect you’re currently wondering about me!). Cousin Juan had questioned incredulously, ‘“Is this all we have for dinner?” But Nonna had simply laughed and encouraged us to try it. It was a revelation. Of course, a pizza dinner would not raise any eyebrows today, but at the time it was the most delicious thing any of us had ever tasted.

Over my years of using the oven, though, I have noticed less variety and less production of what is exchanged. Not everyone shares food like they used to anymore. I suspect for many, the secret has been lost to the younger generations. Or the younger generation, with its new diets, other means of producing food, and a new suspicion of strange food sources, no longer feels the need or desire to share in the magic of the implement or of a home-cooked meal generally. I don’t know. As time goes on, too, of course, other ovens have likely been dismantled for newer models to take their place. There were also at least a few on the American mainland that were destroyed during the anti-witch hysteria of the late 1600s.

Your dear Nonno never knew the secret. Wise though he was in so many ways, he remained ignorant to the fact that the ingredients for much of what I served were never found in my pantry, nor, in leaner times, in pantries throughout the whole country. This is a secret passed down to our daughters.

Now, there are matching dials on either side of the oven door. The one on the left controls the heat inside the oven. The oven needs to be operating for the magic to work. Twist the dial on the right side to a quarter turn, and whatever is in your oven at the time will be exchanged with that in the oven of a partnering oven. Simple as that! 

I hope this gift gives as much joy and comfort to you as it has to myself and our ancestors, and you eventually continue this tradition of sharing the joy with your future kin. Remain well, my dear Claudia.

All my love, your Nonna x

********

Out of respect for Nonna’s memory, Claudia decided not to dismiss the notion of a magical oven outright, as absurd as it was, and decided to at least test the idea before laying it to rest.

So, once the kitchen was useable again, she concocted a quick stew using whatever root vegetables she could find in the garden; the most stubborn to have survived the surrender of their bed to weeds. She filled a freshly-scrubbed cast iron pot with the veggies, stock and fresh herbs, and placed it inside the oven, somewhat hurriedly, wanting to be done with the experiment.

After heating up the oven, Claudia turned the right hand dial a quarter turn. She kept her arm outstretched, just in case there was a spark or shock or something as she did this; she had no idea what to expect. The silence that followed was anticlimactic, but predictable, Claudia told herself. She supposed that even if there once had been something to Nonna’s story, after all these years of no use, the magic would most certainly have faded. So she left the oven to cook the stew and she busied herself elsewhere.    

Before too long, a delicious smell wafted through the air of the home. But rather than it being of potatoes and beets and thyme, Claudia could smell the sweet aroma of roasting onions and… was that, cheese?

She used the oven mitt to open the oven door—there was no glass in the oven door to look through—and the stew had been replaced by a French onion soup! Claudia felt lightheaded for a moment and had to steady herself on a chair for a moment. It was impossible!

It took her a few minutes of stunned immobility to realise the soup needed saving and she scooped it out of the oven as the crouton edges were starting to smoke. Placing the pot on the table, she looked at it, not daring to believe what she was seeing. Her stomach certainly recognised what it sensed though, and let out a loud grumble. Claudia fetched a spoon from its drawer and returned to the table. Dipping the spoon straight into the pot, she blew on it for a moment to cool it and slowly lifted it to her mouth. The soup was delightful; rich and buttery, with a hint of spice to balance the sweetness of the onion. Suddenly, Claudia was ashamed at the minimal effort she had put into her half of the meal exchange.

*******

It didn’t take long before the little cottage in the hills began emanating delicious scents of home-made cooking once again; the magic of the oven still very much alive.

Within a few years there was a new generation of little footsteps running around the cottage, being introduced to the flavours of the world with whatever roasted, baked or broiled treat Claudia produced from the old stone kitchen.

The oven didn’t come without its missteps though. Once, Claudia had been making a birthday cake for her daughter– who had helped fold the batter!—and it had disappeared by the time the timer had gone off to say the cake was done. Her daughter had been very confused and upset; somehow it wasn't the same blowing out candles speared into a roast pheasant.

It turned out, her new tabby kitten—a birthday gift—had taken a liking to rubbing itself against the rough edges of the stonework around the cottage.

One day her daughter would understand, thought Claudia, smiling to herself. But for now, it was about enjoying the food, in whatever its form, and the company it brought together.