Five years have passed since that gloomy night when, standing in front of the stove in my tiny kitchen in via Peschiera in Bra, I showed Jesse how to make a proper Venetian risotto. We weren’t dating yet, not officially at least; but my kitchen had quickly become a focal point, a gravitational centre in our strange, undefined relationship. Cooking and eating together was a way to feel each other out, to test our compatibility, to make sense of who we were as individuals, and as a couple. Everything in our lives back then passed through the filter of food. Food filled our days – we were studying it in all its aspects, eating it copiously, often cooking it collectively – and permeated our minds, our conversations. We breathed food, dreamed about it, talked about it all the time. Naturally, we thought it was only going to work between us if we could make our eating habits collide, our food ideas click.