Sixty years,
one mortar,
and a family that still
can't agree on
the pine nuts.

Short hand-twisted trofie tossed with pesto pounded that morning in the 1962 marble mortar, a few waxy potato coins and green beans cooked in with the pasta the way Genoa insists, finished with a spoon of the starchy water so it clings.

Thin focaccia pulled at four o'clock, blistered and shattering at the edge, oozing soft stracchino from the middle, sea salt on top, gone by eight most nights so come early or argue with whoever took the last piece.

A young red from the hills behind the city, poured into tumblers not stemware, the bottle that has fueled sixty years of pine-nut arguments and never lost the plot.