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boniverotica:

It’s pasta making day! Bon Iver creates a flour volcano, filling the caldera with eggs and pushing the whole mess around with some authority. The dog industriously keeps the floor clean, and my job is to observe with a glass of Chianti poured from a bottle that wears a little straw suit.

Bon Iver begins to sing a song about his grandmother’s hands, strong and sure as they rolled out the pasta with the same broomstick she used to punish him for stealing dough. He sings of her brisk advice and her long embraces, and the way she taught him to listen to the crickets to predict how cold the night would be. He sings of her dirty feet dancing in the street in Italy, where she lived across the street from a church her father would never let her enter.

‘But Bon Iver,’ I say. ‘You don’t have an Italian grandmother.’

He just rolls his eyes and hums, and begins to hang the long strands like translucent tinsel in the fading, flickering light in our August kitchen.