Puglia in Tavola, prose poem in mind

Earlier this week, I took down from the book shelf in the kitchen where we keep the cook books a small volume we bought in Puglia: Puglia in Tavola.

And I opened it up this morning, flipping away from the recipe I had bookmarked to see what else is hidden inside there, and I find names of recipes that read like the seeds of prose poems in Italian.

Words so foreign to me, that they beggar the imagination that they could be Italian (and yet I see they are).

Words like: quagghjariedde and ghiemeridde.

I don't cook. But a recipe book in Italian? A little piece of heaven. Almost as good as a ciambellina.