On a lunchtime walk through the neighborhood yesterday I smelled what I imagined was a hot lunch bubbling away on a stove. It smelled vaguely tomato-ey, and made me feel cozy and warm, as if I would soon stroll into a kitchen, pull up a chair and dig into a plate of spaghetti.

Instead, I ate my usual salad.

What is it about the hot lunch? It’s old-fashioned, for sure, because someone must be home to cook it.   In fact, it extends further back than I can remember, to a time when people worked close enough to their homes to eat lunch there.

It implies small towns, then, or the Venice of Commissar Brunetti mystery novels. Guido Brunetti often eats lunch at home, if I recall, but he (in addition to being fictional) lives in a place that builds its society around the big lunch and the long siesta.

That will not happen here, I know. But a walker can dream.

(Photo: wikipedia)