Maria Corn Jöckln is at work
Maria Corn Jöckln pushes and pulls the handle of the churn with steady rhythm. The cream, white and warm, gradually turns into butter, the domestic gold. Each stroke is an act of faith: the hope that the effort will be transformed into something good, something concrete, something necessary.
Next to the stove, Maria Corn, née Antonio, rests for a while. Her hands tremble slightly, but her gaze remains alert. For years, she was the one who ran the farm when the men were in the woods or away for seasonal work. Now it is up to the young woman to continue. Not many words are needed.
The air is thick with scents
The air is thick with scents. The smell of thickening milk, wood smoke, hot iron from the stove. On the shelf, a jar of cream waits its turn. A blade of light filters through the window, cutting the room in two with the promise of day. Outside, Fierozzo is still shrouded in mist. Only the distant crowing of a cockerel reminds us that life, even up here, follows its course.
Maria smiles. The butter begins to separate from the buttermilk. She collects it carefully, as if gathering something precious. The golden mass compacts in her hands, and she shapes it into the carved wooden mould with ancient gestures handed down by mothers and grandmothers. The elderly woman nods, satisfied.
