The dining room of my grandma's villa, nestled just outside the medieval walls of Bologna, is perfectly ready to host the year's most exclusive and important dinner party. There are crystal chalices for the wine. Plates are disposed on the table at a palm's distance from one another, the bowls shine waiting to be filled with precious hand-crafted, doughy miracles. Light dances across the family silver-forks, knives and spoons that have born silent witness to this family's banquets for hundreds of years, have seen more tortellini than any family member at the table and practically sing to each...