It’s cold outside, it’s a mid-November night and in the deserted street even more than usual the fog embraces everything with softness and generosity. In the darkness you can see a light on, that of our laboratory.
Inside, in the heat emanating from the lit ovens and with the scent of flour in the air, the production of the 2020 Marchesi Panettone is proceeding at full speed.
Also this year Silvano Marchesi, our Maestro and my Uncle, has decided to make very small changes to get even closer to excellence. He is never satisfied, and when he decides, he does it.
I am thrilled to step into the oven and see how she has every little detail under control.
It excites me to watch how he expertly scrutinizes and examines each dough to ensure it meets his high standards of quality.
I am thrilled to watch him move between the flour-covered counters and I am thrilled to read about the confidence of his gestures and his knowing movements.
Not presumption, but knowledge. Of that knowledge due to observation and experience.
A few years ago, between the lines of an in-depth article, D’Avenia argued that the greatness of writers derives from their ability to read us, rather than to be read.
In short, it happens to me, while questioning myself among the pages of my beloved Dante or Leopardi, Ungaretti or Saint Augustine, but also Baricco or others, to think “damn, they’re talking about me, it’s me”.
In the same way, the Maestro, the Uncle, Il Silva is questioned by the dough, the doses, the ingredients, the temperatures.
His questioning is no less than mine, because it is not the nature of the object that makes the greatness of the thought.
And his thought produces for me the best thing there is.
