Sunday dawned blue and golden, as if the sky knew it was a special day. I woke up to the smell of coffee already invading the bedroom, but this time it wasn't Marco in the kitchen—it was Rosa. I knew because the smell was accompanied by voices, many voices, and the unmistakable sound of pots being organized.
"Get up, sleepyhead!" Rosa's voice floated up the stairs. "The day has already started and there's lots of work!"
Marco, beside me, groaned and pulled the pillow over his head.
"She starts early."
"She started yesterday." I laughed, sitting up in bed. "Come on. I want to see what she's prepared."
We went downstairs and were greeted by a scene of organized warfare. The kitchen was unrecognizable—pots everywhere, open bags of flour, fruits being sliced at impressive speeds by experi
