Mirko Squadroni

This is it!

What a journey life is...

And it all starts again from here!

"A semi-short tale of a circle closing: between memories, pans, stoves, culinary evolutions and involutions, emotions, and awareness."

It all begins with that scent. The one that defined every Sunday morning just over half a century ago. Me, a small child, sitting in front of a bowl of milk with biscuits to soak... and that delicious aroma already filling the house for hours. A warm, full, comforting scent that I still remember in every nuance—the smell of Sunday sauce. Grandma Rosa’s ragù, slowly creating its magic on a stove that, back then, looked like a dream machine to me.

My memories of being in the kitchen... I’ve carried them inside since those years. Standing on a chair to reach the worktop or the burners, playing with flavors... making my first "concoctions" under Grandma's watchful eye and patient gaze... though her eyes also held the knowledge that she’d be the one cleaning up later.

Flavors, scents, indelible images.

Grandpa Primo—former factory worker, and in those days, hunter and farmer... a gatherer of mushrooms and wild asparagus, and a great accordion player. A companion for fishing, for stories of war and imprisonment, for laughter, curses, and drinking... a master at seasoning and roasting his porchetta on that special spit: a wooden pole turned by hand in front of the open fire... what a celebration!

Summer snacks made of tomatoes bitten into directly in the vegetable garden or "rubbed" onto a slice of bread... a pinch of salt and good olive oil. Grandma tending to her chickens, hens, rabbits, and pigeons... and then off to gather wild field herbs.

The winters, the olive harvest, and the thrill of tasting that "liquid gold" freshly pressed onto a piece of bruschetta—thinking back now, it’s almost moving. And the cloth sack of olives drying by the fireplace.

The cold! Friends and neighbors coming over... everyone ready to help with the pig slaughter and processing.

I remember my admiration, my enchanted gaze following every move of the norcino’s (pork butcher) wise and precise hands. I remember my tasks back then well... and I remember the pungent smells. Scraping the hair off the rind with a knife after an adult had doused it with boiling water... "Scrape, Mirko... scrape... clean it well."

Turning the handle of the meat grinder for the sausages... I even remember the adults arguing animatedly about the percentages of salt and pepper for the mix. Grandpa always wanted them spicier and would load them with pepper!

It was also my job to go and fry up a bit of the fresh sausage meat in a pan for a taste... how proud I was that it was up to me to cook it.

When it came time to stuff the casings... I wasn’t allowed to turn the handle. The movement had to be skillful and steady so as not to break the gut—adult stuff, basically. Then, of course, when the work was done, we all ate together...

Padellaccia (pan-fried pork scraps), wine, cards, curses, laughter, and the accordion.

I grew up among fegatelli (pork liver) and bay leaves, ventricina, sausages and mazzafegati, "pizze sotto lu focu" (flatbread cooked under embers), birds on the spit, snails, tripe and pecorino, wild boar stew, mushrooms cooked over coals, homemade pasta, unsalted bread, and that Sunday morning sauce.

How can you not carry these images and sensory memories inside you forever? How can you not be influenced by them for life? How can you not feel those roots so strong they remain as colors, smells, and flavors in your mind?

One day I said: "I’m going to be a Chef."

And that’s how it happened...

So much sweat, so many burns, so many scars, so many hours, and that knife callus under the index finger of my right hand—the mark of every cook.

Then it happens that you grow up, you travel, you discover, you encounter other cultures, experiences, smells, and tastes.

The many years spent in Rome made me feel like the great classics of Roman cuisine were partly mine, too. The curiosity I’ve always had led me to play with molecular gastronomy—among powders and potions, unlikely ingredients, precision scales, and various toys—making me feel more like a chemistry student than a cook.

Years spent abroad, amidst the frustration of seeing someone still put ketchup on overcooked pasta or seeing cans of "ravioli in sauce" for sale in supermarkets.

Years spent far away—many of them—with the enthusiasm and joy of learning... discovering... tasting again... and always the desire to grow.

Then, having grown older—"more mature," I prefer to say—you find yourself returning home, to your land, after 30 years that flew by in a heartbeat, and...

SURPRISE!

You rediscover yourself as that child filled with the smell of Grandma’s sauce.

You find yourself hungry to find those flavors again.

You wander through delis and supermarkets, flip through a supplier’s catalog, fall in love with a farmer's stall "dealing" his goods on the street, lose yourself in that little bundle your parents put in your hands filled with sausages, eggs from the coop, gathered herbs, some frozen truffles, and homemade cheese.

You realize how far away from you... those gourmet dishes are. Those chemistry experiments, those decorations that were often more important than the substance, that cuisine made of big numbers or big appearances.

You see yourself as a child again, with a longing to return to that frank, honest, emotional cuisine—made of memories, smells, and flavors that stay inside.

You see yourself back in that kitchen with Grandma Rosa, and at 50 years old, you say to yourself:

"This is what I want to do when I grow up!"

No longer the CHEF...

When I grow up, I want to be that wanderer who came home and now cooks to share those memories, those flavors, and those emotions.

What a circle life is... what a journey!