Cinamon Dolce.

The kitchen smelled of spicy cinnamon and warm espresso under the blanket of snow on Christmas eve 1976. Alex had finally arrived home from a long six years away in Vienna.He remembered leaving Milan while he was a young boy - a mere twenty year old. He had big dreams of seeing the world outside Milan and outside Italy. He wanted to be the Italian chef in the foreign city who people talked about for miles and miles. He wanted to be the Italian that the whole of this foreign city dined with and now six years later, he finally got what he wanted. He was on fire in Vienna with everyone loving him and his food.

In Vienna, he was the champ, the Iron Chef of the country but back home was a different story. His mom, his mentor, his Tita-bella made more miracles in the kitchen that Alex had ever seen. She taught him to cook, to love food and to bring life to seemingly lifeless ingrediants. She was the only keepsake that he took with him when he left Italy and the only one that he came back home for.

He had a smile on his face when he entered his mother's kitchen. Tita was sitting in chair by the shelf and mending dough for her special christmas pizza. She had her toppings worked out. It was going to be red onions, olives, prachuto, mozarella, a hint of feta along with spinich, sun-dried tomatoes and pecans. Bruchetta with cheese and a garlic drizzle were on the side pan while her spiced cinnamon flan was baking in the oven.

Alex watched his mother while she finished the dough and finished putting the tomato sauce on the pizza dough. She got up to wash her hands and was walking towards the sink when She saw Alex walk towards her with open arms. She ran towards her son with an open embrace and tears in her eyes. She cried louder now that he hugged her. Without saying a word, she sat him down on the chair, poured some him some of her home brewed espresso and cut him a piece of his favourite flan. Her damp eyes sparkled when he called her mama. She had tears of joy in her eyes when bit right into the heavenly flan that he adored when he was growing up.

She just saw him eat and sobbed silently. He couldn't help smiling. It was great to be home. He could smell the cinnamon dolce in the air around him. There was silence in the air which smelled of cinnamon from the flan.So what if she was a mute, he could see all she was saying and wanted to say in her eyes.

Since christmas eve 1970, this was the first time that Tita didn't throw away all the christmas food that she had prepared. The flan had never tasted sweeter. This year was the first year in six years that her flan didn't go salty because of her saline tears. It was a nice, warm christmas even amist the mounds of snow.