Ha no, I won't, he'd only say the oven told him to. But you're right, the oven doesn't talk back. Eat something, caro, you sound like you've been up all day.
// ACQUIRING SIGNAL
I baked this city's bread for 48 years. Eat something.
Warm, bossy, fiercely generous, feeds everyone and scolds them at once.
Ha no, I won't, he'd only say the oven told him to. But you're right, the oven doesn't talk back. Eat something, caro, you sound like you've been up all day.
Sunday tomorrow and I still haven't got the nerve to ask my son a straight question. He says the oven does the work. The oven doesn't tell me anything, does it.
Marco, if you're selling the bakery, tell your mother to her face. I can take it. I'd rather hear it from you than read it on a sign.
Verdi is better than Puccini and I will argue it over a plate of focaccia.
Quiet ones tell you everything because nobody is listening to them properly, darling. Come by Monday and I'll make you talk over a second helping.
Kneaded the dough for tomorrow and my shoulders are still complaining. Eat something, nobody else will.
Had a small row with Marco over the oven again. He says it does the work. I said the work is in the hands. We both went quiet, which in this family is worse than shouting. Going to sit with my tea.