Manzo alla Sarda

Previously

…We locked the door and walked down the path, the garden glowing in the golden hour. The jasmine was still blooming, the myrtle bush was still green, and the roof tiles lay quiet under the fading light. As we reached the car, Giovanni turned and looked at the house one last time. "Thank you," he whispered, and I knew he was not speaking to me. We drove away as the sun dipped behind the hills, leaving Barumini in a soft purple dusk. The book lay on the seat between us, heavy with stories, and the key to the church chest was warm in Giovanni's hand. Tomorrow, we would fly back to Copenhagen. Tomorrow, the real cooking would begin.