Infinite tavolo over Tuscan hill turns words into food

Infinite tavolo over Tuscan hill turns words into food

We were sitting around an endless raw wooden tavolo, suspended above a Tuscan hill that faded into the golden mist of sunset.

With me were my childhood friends, Marco and Giulia, but our voices made no sound: every word we spoke instantly turned into a dish at the center of the table.

Giulia laughed, and from her breath a steaming plate of hand‑made tagliatelle appeared, glowing with its own light, while red wine glasses filled themselves each time we toasted.

The bread was not solid: it floated in mid‑air like small warm clouds scented with rosemary, which we could grab with our fingers.

When we tried to stand up to hug each other, the floor became as soft as fresh flour and we sank slowly, laughing, never touching the bottom.