She used to sing while she cooked. 🎶 Little songs in dialect, half words, half melody songs her mother once sang in Mola di Bari, when the air smelled of olive oil and sea salt. That day, she sang to this focaccia. Her voice was soft, almost like a prayer a hymn to the life she built so far from home, and the love she poured into every bite. Tomatoes and olives, side by side, like Italy and America living together on the same tray. It wasn’t just bread it was memory made edible. Her way of sayi