I was lucky enough to visit my sister for a summer when she lived in Rome. It was the hottest summer in 80 years. Forty-five degrees in the shade hot. It was also the summer I fell in love. In love with food. The temperatures soared and our dinners became late, late, like 10 or 11pm late. It wasn’t until the sun had been gone a spell that you could even fathom eating anything. So, we’re at a restaurant near her place and the waiter is cute....really cute. He is flirty and lovely and sparkling eyes and all that. He comes to the table after we’ve ordered our drinks with what he calls, “fiore de Roma!” Quite proudly, quite loudly and sets down a platter of the most perfect posey-shaped pinwheels: layers of fresh basil; that day’s sun dried Roma tomatoes; creamy, delicate buffala mozzarella; and a tissue paper thin ribbon of salty prosciutto. A little dish of olive oil and a little dish of balsamic and a sprinkle of chilli oil on the side. My god. The best bouquet I ever received. Flowers of Rome. Just heaven.