Ignes Aeternum

Wearing my ritualistic apron, I stand, vi stando, Vesta, in the heart of my home. I light a match, sacred flame of the virgin Goddess of the hearth. The wooden stick penetrates the belly of the kitchen itself, looking for the right spot to light its fire. One can only auspicate this match was manufactured from an arbor felix, most reasonably an oak. Slowly, the oven fills with heat. The entire house warms up with this very movement.

As it was the case in the inner Aedes of the Temple, water is not allowed during the execution of the ritual, or only when strictly necessary and during the shortest interval of time possible. The chef exclusively sips wine, red preferably, but as the risotto only drinks white, I will adapt.

Every supper is prepared, served and consumed following the same, repeated, order of events and actions. Nonetheless, the greater the importance we allocate to the good unfolding of the dinner, the more its semiotic meanings and expressions will manifest.

As the priestesses of the temple herselves, I am the only one who is allowed in the enclosure of its walls. The kitchen becomes an inviolable space. Especially during the perpetuation of the cooking rituals. As my mother taught me, and her mother to her before, there are secrets to be kept.