Coniglio. A delicate, savory flavor.

Rabbit meat is nutritious, very digestible, and exquisite, says Ada. But, she warns, the rabbit must be young.

How does one know?

Il coniglio giovane ha i denti corti, le gambe magre, e i ginocchi grossi. A young rabbit has short teeth, slender legs, and fat knees. (!) To tell its freshness, she says to look for l’occhio vivo [alive eyes, though the rabbit is dead at this point], red flesh, and an absence of green veining on the belly.

The head, paws, and intestini are discarded. To skin it is easy. If you hold it right and make a simple cut, the skin will rip off cleanly until the neck.

And to kill it? Apparently a heavy mallet to the skull does the trick.

THE FARMHOUSE WHERE MY GREAT UNCLES LIVED sat in the enclave of Ronche, in the village of Fontanafredda, the province of Pordenone, and within the larger region of Friuli Venezia Giulia, about one hour north of Venice. The address there was simple: Famiglia Rossetti Paolo e Bruno, Fontanafredda Ronche (PN) Italia. No street address. There wasn’t one.

The lower level rooms (a kitchen and a storage area where wine was kept and salame hung) had a packed, earthen floor. An exterior wooden stair led to a narrow porch running the length of the house along the second floor where three bedrooms were aligned. An outhouse to the rear of the property (a shack wrapped around a hole in the ground) and a well pump in the front yard serviced the essential needs. There was no heat. A century-old wood burning range sat at the back of the kitchen and above it a small, square window looked out to kilometers of pasture and at the horizon, the Italian Alps. On a clear day, ski slopes at Cortina d’Ampezzo could be spotted.

The house had been built by my great-great grandfather in the mid-1800’s. In the center upstairs room, on the bed still there during my visits in the 90’s, my grandmother and her brothers and sister had all been born.

The large front garden (about 600 square meters) was the ideal of organic abundance. Vegetable beds, herbs, fruit trees, merlot grapes: everywhere an overflowing green. There’d once been two steer (to plow the fields) and a cow (her milk traded for local cheese in what was then a thriving barter market), but they were sold during the recession in the 70’s. Behind the house were the hens and roosters. In the eaves were the pigeons. And in front of the property, at the edge of the garden, were the rabbits.

Bruno and Paolo, two of my grandmother’s brothers, lived in the family farmhouse and tended the crops. Neither had married. Bruno, because he was somewhat slow-witted, perhaps. Balding, he wore trousers three sizes too large cinched with a belt, and an uneasy expression which registered somewhere between disgusted and shocked. A dear man, he was taken to fitful rants against gli zingari, the gypsies who roamed the nearby towns. And Paolo: I don’t know why he never found someone. The youngest of the siblings, he was born after the first world war and drafted into the second. Paolo was captured by the German forces and, in an astonishing turn of fate, assigned to an SS officer as a private chef. Paolo's cooking skills became his ticket to returning home alive.

We’d made the drive to Paolo and Bruno from our home north of Milan in about 5 hours, including an indulgent stop for coffee and chocolates. Sophia, about two and half, sprang from the car when we stopped at the end of the gravel drive. Paolo and Bruno trotted smiling from the kitchen, arms wide. Work trousers and undershirts, heavy black farm shoes. Ciao! Ciao! Ciao! Ciao! ...

Paolo took Sophia’s hand and led her to the rabbit cage. He undid the latch on its screened door. There were maybe a dozen inside.

Quale ti piace, Sophia? With Paolo, it was always his eyes which smiled. Gentle, mischievous.

Sophia dove straight for an extra-large bunny, a perfect, snow white fluff, peach-pink ears, whiskers twitching happily.

Quello! she said, pointing. Mamma, that one’s my favorite! I nodded; it was beautiful.

When we returned from a walk with Bruno exploring an additional acre of ground they’d planted, Paolo was standing by the outdoor table, sliding the last of something into a bucket.

He tilted his head, winked, and I knew, God, then I knew.

As Sophia ran toward to the cage to look for her bunny, Paolo removed the bucket of blood, guts, and fur just in time. Its thighs and legs were likely already in the pan, the aroma of sautéing onions and sage wafting from the kitchen door.

I was an accomplice (unknowing, but still...) to the murder of that fluff o’ white innocence. The thought brought a serious pang of unease. Was it because the rabbit was excruciatingly adorable? (Clearly I would not have experienced the same remorse for the demise of an awkward, twitching hen.) Or was it because Sophia had been asked to personally tap the one—the one she liked the most!—that was to die?

An hour later we—the uncles, Sophia, my husband Wolfgang, baby Alec, and I—were seated at the kitchen table, a floral vinyl cloth, likely a remnant from one of my grandmother’s yearly trips home, covering its rough, wooden surface. In the center of the table: a pitcher of their merlot, a bottle of Aranciata (Sophia’s favorite sparkling orange soda), a bowl of steaming polenta, and a platter of tender, aromatic coniglio braised in white wine.

Guilt over the rabbit’s death? Gone at the first bite.

Written by Paolo. His recipe for coniglio:  Oil and butter. Salt. Pepper. Sage. Rosemary. Garlic. Coniglio in pieces (pezzi). Sauté (rosolare: to cook until rosy in shade. How wonderful is this?). Add (aggiungere) white wine and … — Written by Paolo. His recipe for coniglio: Oil and butter. Salt. Pepper. Sage. Rosemary. Garlic. Coniglio in pieces (*pezzi*). Sauté (*rosolare*: to cook until *rosy* in shade. How wonderful is this?). Add (*aggiungere*) white wine and water (*acqua*). Liver (*fegato*) mince (*tritare*) parsley (*prezzemolo*).