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The Abbey kitchen is extremely quiet when you find him there.
No bustling of ghouls or siblings, no clanging of metal pots and pans- just the soft scraping sound of a wooden spoon against the side of a mixing bowl and the rhythmic hum of a Papa enjoying the quiet solitude.
Papa Primo is standing at the counter, the sleeves of his sweater rolled up to his elbows, stirring a pale mixture that you can easily decipher right away as cookie dough. Candles are lit nearby, cascading flickers of light from the flames across his face. The atmosphere is peaceful and tranquil. When you take a deep breath in, you inhale the smell of butter and sugar, mingling with the faint scent of incense which always seems to cling to Primo.
“Ah.” He says, as soon as he notices you in the doorway. The tone of his voice is warm, deep, rich. Like an aged oak. “You have found me in my secret domain.”
“Secret?!” You laugh softly, stepping close to him. “I didn’t even know the Abbey had a kitchen this peaceful.”
He smiles, genuinely, creases forming in the corner of his eyes. “It is peaceful because the others do not know that I bake.” He gestures at you with his wooden spoon, a conspiratorial flicker in his gaze. “Let us keep it that way, Sì?”
“Of course, Papa.” You nod with a large grin, leaning against the counter. “What are you making?” You ask as you peer around him into the bowl.
“Something simple. Butter cookies.” He says with a soft kind of reverence, as if naming a prayer. “My mother taught me this recipe when I was very small. Every autumn when the air turned to a chill, we would make these and sing as we baked together.”
There is a wistfulness and nostalgia in his voice that immediately pulls you in. Using the wooden spoon he points to the bowl of cookie dough, a silent invitation through his gaze for you to join him. With a nod you wash up, listening intently as he begins to hum- low and slow- almost as if the tune has been asleep for some time and he must gently wake it. The soft melody fills the
kitchen air, the warmth wrapping around you like some kind of spell. It’s definitely an old song- that much you can tell just by the way each note lingers.
“What’s that?” You ask quietly as you begin to help him shape dough.
“An old hymn from my village. My mother used to sing it every time she baked. I thought I had forgotten it…but perhaps…it remembered me first.”
You can’t help it- after a few minutes you’re humming along, matching his rhythm and cadence, even though you don’t know the words. The corners of his mouth lift as his voice becomes stronger, wrapping around yours like a blanket.
When you finally falter, he whispers the lyrics. In Italian and soft on the tongue:
“Dolce luce, resta con me… dolce cuore, canta con me…”
He gestures with the wooden spoon lightly, for you to repeat them back. You try. Clumsily at first. He chuckles, correcting your pronunciation with patience that feels limitless. Soon- you catch on and you’re singing together. Voices blending together in the glow of candle and oven light.
It is by no means a perfect rendition. You laugh between lines, and he joins in, shaking his head fondly when you hit the wrong note unintentionally. But that is what makes it so beautiful- the imperfection. It’s something very much human. Alive.
When the cookies are finally done, Primo carefully slides the large tray from the oven. The warm, buttery and sugary scent makes your mouth water and pulls you into a warm embrace. He places one singular cookie on a small plate, offering it to you with both of his hands. As if he was presenting you an offering.
You take a bite- it immediately melts on your tongue warm, goey and sweet.
“Well?” He asks, a glimmer of curiosity shining in his eyes.
“They’re perfect..” you moan as you savor the rich taste.
He chuckles and nods almost in relief.
“I think it, perhaps, was the singing. It makes them lighter you know.”
You smile, gently brushing flour off of the sleeve of his sweater. “Then we will just have to sing every time.”
Primo’s laugh is quiet, relaxed.
“Then I suppose,” his warm eyes meet yours “you will have to bake with me again…sometime.”
For just a moment, in the warm glow of the candle and oven light, the world outside now hushed and cold- you can almost swear the hymn still hums softly between the two of you.