Where are we?
Alps. Grass. Cows. Cowbells. Summer. Dung in the meadows. Flowers and scents. Barns. Milking. Time passes by. Rennet. Serum. Cream. Winter arrives. The light fades and the cows are in the barn. We recite rhymes from our childhood and we approach the gaily decorated breakfast table. And then out of the corner of our eye we note an old wooden container which accommodates a whole slab of butter with a Stella alpine flower cleverly sculptured on top. The presence of certain things is like poetry to the ears.