Before mobile phones, before text messages and before Skype, when I used to go on holidays at the seaside with my parents, my uncles and my cousin for the month of August, there was a ritual that would repeat itself every night, year after year. Marghe and I would choose the most colorful dress, pretend to put on some make up as grown up girls – we were still little girls – and then we would go out with our families to phone our grandparents from the phone booth down the street, with a handful of coins or the first phone cards.
After that daily phone call, after all the stories about long swims at the beach, sand castles, suntan and the wonders of the pine forest, it was finally time for a gelato. A ritual, a sacred moment longed for the whole day. It could be in a small paper cup from the little bar down the road or a huge cone from the centre gelateria, but every day there would be a gelato. In those days there were no accounts of calories, sugars or diets … there was only the pleasure of the ice cream, every night.