When I was 3, my parents took me to Tuscany. I was little, curious, and refused to put shoes on in the snow. I remember cobblestone streets, tree-lined paths covered in crunchy auburn leaves, chasing pigeons, and bowls of pici. Most of my memories from that trip are scattered and misplaced but they are among my first. What I know for sure is that it was beautiful and exciting and I was always hungry after a day of walking - or being carried.

I tried many years ago to make pici, but it was a failed attempt and I did not push it any further. A few weeks ago, I decided I wanted to commit to recreating this pasta from my childhood. Of course, my memories are hazy, and I couldn’t exactly remember what it was like, but I entered in with the mindset that I would know when I got it right. 

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