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“Your father was a handsome young man,” Farah says.

“I never knew him. He died before I was born. On the mountain. Quarry work is dangerous, and there was an accident.”

“What was his name?”

“Luigi.”

Luigi is a common Italian name, so there’s a chance this is another Louie. Or maybe Uncle Louie left more behind than secret accounts in the Cayman Islands. Is it possible he also left a son?

Mauro shares some of the same mannerisms of the Capodimontes and Montinis, which should have been a clue, but I’d chalked them up to general Italian traits. I wouldn’t have assumed Mauro was from my mother’s side of the family because he is tall and strapping, whereas the Caps are small and quick. We embody one another’s characteristics, which weave through the generations like the pulley ropes on the hawses. If you are born in the same place, eat the same food, and do similar work, you will cut a similartipo di corpo.

“Here we are! Mamma’s.” Mauro turns into the driveway. The Mediterranean-style home with a beige stucco exterior and red tile roof is tucked into the side of the hill like a leather-bound book on a shelf. “I hope you don’t mind; I invited Angelo Strazza to lunch,” Mauro says. He locks eyes with mine in the rearview. I manage a weak smile. This day just got worse.

Mauro’s mother greets us at the front door. She is a petite blonde, with classic Tuscan features, a smooth brow, a straight nose, and a warm smile. She wears an apron over Capri pants, a silk blouse, and flat leather sandals. We follow her to the loggia, where Signora LaFortezza has set the table for our lunch.

“Signora, grazie per avermi ospitato.” I take her hand.

“Per favore, chiamami Claudia.”

“Your name is Claudia?”

She nods, surprised at my reaction. “Have we met before?”

“Che bella nome.” I compliment her name as a feeling of knowingness comes over me. This is Uncle Louie’s tomato, his Claudia. I have been looking at photographs of her as a young woman, and she has the same smile, the same eyes. The hair is no longer dark, she’s a blonde, but the smile is the girl in the photo from fifty years ago.

I’m trying to make sense of this when Angelo Strazza emerges from the house and onto the loggia. He looks handsome in a pressed blue-striped shirt and jeans. No paint splotches on his boots. He runs his hand through his hair, ruffling his curls. We compensate for the awkwardness of this surprise reunion with effusive greetings for one another, like long-lost friends. Angelo kisses me on both cheeks like a sister. The scent of his skin is cool and crisp, citrus in the heat. I want to jump off the mountain.

“Giuseppina, will you help me?”

“Of course.” I follow Claudia into the kitchen to help.

Claudia’s kitchen is orderly and neat, like Aunt Lil’s. She takes a loaf of fresh bread out of the oven and hands me a knife. She gives me a clean dish towel to anchor the bread as I cut it so I won’t burn my hand. I arrange the bread on the tray; Claudia drizzles the hot bread with olive oil.

She lifts the lid off theconca, a round white marble container,and lifts out thelardo di Colonnata. She cured the pork fat for months in the marble container, in a full immersion of herbs, garlic, and white vinegar. Claudia slices the lardo in thin strips, twists a ribbon of the delicacy on the back of the knife into a rosette shape, and places it on a slice of the hot bread. She hands me the knife and asks me to finish the job. She tosses a salad of mixed greens with a dressing of salt and fresh-squeezed lemon and drizzles olive oil over the top. It’s hard not to compare Claudia to Aunt Lil. They’re both lovely and good cooks. I wonder how either of them would react if they knew about the other. I’m dizzy, but I blame the heat, or maybe I’m just hungry. I follow her to the loggia with the tray of fresh bread and lardo.

Farah claps her hands together. “Bellissima.”

“Have you ever eaten lardo?” Mauro asks me.

“I remember Grandma Cap talking about it when she reminisced about growing up in Carrara.” What I don’t share is that every time Uncle Louie mentioned lardo, it sounded horrible to me.

“Try it,” Mauro says, handing me a plate.

I take a bite and close my eyes. The ribbon of the herb-infused lardo on the hot bread with buttery olive oil melts in my mouth. The earthiness of the herbs and the tart vinegar cut the richness of the pork fat. The spices trip over my tongue: rosemary, sage, nutmeg, and clove, then coarse salt and black pepper, followed by grace notes of thyme and anise. I savor the bite because the dish is rare, and in it, my family history. I am connected to the past and especially to Uncle Louie. He told me stories about how the miners kept weight on in the heat. They ate the richest food they could find.

Lardo di Colonnatais a local delicacy, but it is also a superfood. The miners and stonemasons needed high-calorie food to function through long hours cutting and moving stone on the mountain, but they were also Italian, so whatever food they chose to sustain theirstrength had to be delicious. The curation of the pork fat is a family enterprise, and theconcasthemselves, carved from the marble of these mountains, hold the lardo as it marinates for months. This dish is of the farm, the earth, and the mountain.

“This is my lastconcabefore the new season,” Claudia admits. “I save it for Mauro. He is my firstborn and he loves lardo. I make it every year for him. My other children, they like it, but they don’t have the love affair with this dish that he does.”

“My mother would do the same for my brother,” I explain, “but she would have her daughters do the work.”

“The same in Italy.” Mauro laughs.

“I say this as a visitor,” Farah begins. “The Italian man, unless he ruins it for himself, has the best life. If he is lucky enough to have his mother by his side all his life, he cannot fail.”

“My son is intelligent and a hard worker. I can claim no credit for that. In fact, as a mother, I control nothing. Mauroè miracolo.His story has a sad start,” Claudia says.

“No one gets everything in this life,” Mauro says.