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Frank Luaces emerges from the wide French doors of a whitewashed farmhouse rubbing his hands vigorously in a dishcloth and grinning broadly. “We’ve been expecting you.” He’s been in the kitchen, carefully tending to the creation of pizzelle, traditional Italian waffle cookies that he’ll press into serving as cups for ice cream after dinner. I have been riding shotgun for the past three hours, idly admiring the scenery as we made our way from Greenville up into the snow-laced hills of Valle Crucis, North Carolina. Frank’s eyes twinkle as he leads us into his workspace. Perhaps it’s the uplifting scent of vanilla and anise, but I feel my spine unkink and my face readjust into a smile.
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