Six.

I remember my grandmother roasting a goose and then dressing gnocci with the drippings and parmigiano cheese. I was 13 when she made this for lunch one day and I remember the smell and the flavour of that meal as it it were yesterday. It is the standard that I have held all other meals to since. The goose was one that she had raised herself and she rolled the gnocci while it was roasting in the oven. She grated the cheese, which she always kept at room temperature and never in the fridge, just before we ate. Each flavour in the meal presented itself proudly and then stepped back to allow another one to take centre stage. There was no confusion, no jumble of spices. Everything she put in that meal was grown or raised by her and she didn't smother anything or try to make it something it wasn't. The meal was simple, fresh and outstanding.

For years as a young adult I always ordered gnocci if I went to a restaurant that served them but I no longer do. I have never found any that have even come close to my grandmother's and they only remind me that I will never taste anything like that meal again. My mom's are soft, light and delicious; she serves them with roasted rabbit stew. In the summer she makes gnocci with butternut squash instead of potatoes and serves them with pesto. But they are different. I make them often but they are different again, each person's gnocci are unique to them, and I know one day I will pine for my mother's as much as I pine for my grandmother's today.