The French door stands open. A finger of flavor lurks just outside, beckoning, teasing. Stepping out onto the deck, I inhale the sweet summer scent of tomatoes and basil and meat sweeten with milk. La Nonna, who lives beyond the living screen, has been stirring sauce for hours; long enough that the aroma wafts through the neighborhood. Even the children stop their games to sniff the air before bouncing their basketballs again in the street. The tinkle of glasses and the rumbling bass drum of laughter filters through the hedge. Her boys must have come for Sunday dinner. I wander nonchalantly, hands behind my back, to examine the flowers in the backyard, stopping to peer through the thin spots in the evergreens. Long tables are set with white cloths, thick red crockery and small vases of Evening Primrose. Her family sits on folding lawn chairs; glasses of red wine in hand, nibbling on olives and slivers of cheese. The aroma tickles again, carried on the breeze. La Nonna stands at her backdoor looking out with a summer Sunday smile. I wander back to the house intent on thawing out some pesto for my own Sunday supper.