Pasta as Prayer 🍝 When the world feels too loud and nothing makes sense, I don’t reach for my phone. I reach for semolina. There’s something sacred about the ritual mixing, kneading, shaping. It slows my breath. It silences the noise. It reminds me I’m still here. Some people meditate. I make pasta. Maybe it’s muscle memory. Maybe it’s ancestral memory. Maybe it’s the little girl in me reaching for my Nonna’s hands, remembering how she taught me that peace isn’t something we find it’s something we make. When my Nonna Romana was well, she was never idle. Her hands were always moving: stringing taralli, stitching baby blankets, shaping orecchiette one by one. She understood that keeping busy wasn’t about distraction. It was about devotion. A sacred rhythm to keep darkness at bay. “Quando la vita diventa troppo pesante, a’ Nonna fai un po’ di pasta e passa tutto.” When life gets too heavy, my darling, make some pasta and everything will pass. So I do. And somehow, it does. Because sometimes the most healing thing you can do is return to something simple, something real, and remember: You are still soft. You are still strong. And you are still so loved. ❤️