I was born in Genoa, where the mortar was not an exhibition object but a daily tool. At home, pesto was only made this way: by hand. Mom made it using only the basil Dad grew in his garden. It was a gesture of love and a way to save money. She also made fresh pasta, so the result was perfect. Today, that mortar is still with me, and sharing this experience means recounting a living part of my childhood.