Undoubtedly, for most of us, it was magical that their rice so explicitly remembered the sweets that a few days ago we had stolen, with obvious talent, from a small supermarket in the neighborhood. Others imagined that this should be the taste of a filet mignon, of those seen in the movies, but that they can hardly be known in the real world. The most daring ventured to talk about manna, about the biblical story that one morning at Sunday school, a lady of ancient smells had told us. In this, God had provided his chosen people with this delicacy when they were hungry in the desert; hunger, something so recognizable among us, the privileged diners of Marabunta. I think that, in part, we saw him as that god provider or, at least, his eyes made us think of him on more than one occasion. God was good.
Unlike the children he served to, Trementino lived with his father and mother throughout his childhood: he, a serious Mathematics teacher; she, an intelligent housewife. Undoubtedly, those who knew him at that time will be able to affirm that he was a child who liked to play in the street, run and run like those madmen who are missing in adulthood, full of joy and without absurd worries and who, of course, enjoyed small things that, at that time, were enormously wonderful. Maybe it's right to say they still were.
Don Trementino Marabunta did not miss the opportunity to tell us many stories about life, hoping that we would believe that they were absolute truth. I remember one time he told me about a man who came into a café and turned a lump of sugar into a fish: I didn't believe him, because he wasn't a child to believe in those things anymore, yet he seemed to believe it. I would have even dared to say that he was the man with the sugar cube. However, I can conclude that Trementino Marabunta remembered and relived with love how beautiful his childhood had been. If you ask your closest friends or family members, they will agree with me.
Mr. Trementino knew how to cook infinite plates of hot food, at least - and that's the important thing - said the children with whom he shared, voluntarily and free of charge, in that "home" where children without a father or mother, or badly called criminals, waited for some light of affection; even among those corridors that led to cold rooms of recurring loneliness. Marabunta knew this and, therefore, the two times he visited us during the week, he made an effort to ensure that the food had that one element that could not be missing.
Once, a priest visited our "home", with the aim, of course, of tasting our hero's food. Certainly, the comments about him had spread and generated some curiosity among the most skeptical. The expectation was very high: the ecclesiastic expected to find a gourmet dish, worth all that fuss. I remember his surprised face very well when in front of him he only found a humble dish of rice with ground meat. I also
