The silent tables of the past where the sense of justice was understood

At my grandparents’ house during lunch and dinner, strictly at noon and half past seven in the evening, it was silent. It could happen that the adults exchanged a few words, but it always happened in passing and looking towards us children, as if to say: “they’re here, we’ll talk about it later”. For the rest you could hear only the noise of the crockery and occasionally my grandmother’s stead who distributed the food according to a pre-established order or that of my grandfather who instead had absolute sovereignty over the wine, a two-liter bottle rigorously positioned within reach hand. For both the food and the wine, none of the diners was allowed to say they wanted more. Those who had finished their portion could only trust in my grandmother’s magnanimity in the distribution of her eventual remains, who, however, especially with her grandchildren, was always very careful not to be partial. In this regard she applied a strict criterion of distributive justice, slightly tempered by the age of the grandchildren, by their appetite and occasionally by their tastes. To all the same portion, with some compensation, more or less slight depending on the circumstances, shared by all of us.