Nuovo inizio e vecchia trattoria (what's not to love?)

It has already become a common phenomenon to me that a new stage in my life has to be marked by means of a change in oral fixations :D (much as I wish to boast about my sex life, I will only stick to the food that my mouth take in).

In a nutshell, my student life was full of VIFON instant soups;

the UK life has already marked its name on my raped intestine with pre-cooked, ple-sliced, pre-chewed, pre-swollen (how come I want to get British citizenship so badly? :O) lunches, breakfasts, brunches, dinners, and suppers;

my "sweet home Alabama" always used to spoil me (and my finer than 90-60-90 figure) with made from scratch 3-course dinners;

my first step into mature life was oily from all the fast food, pizza, crisps, party snacks etc. and hardly any regular meals at all (in order to save up space for the already mentioned);

my single stomach was fed with beers, wine and whatever-there-is-in-the-closest-off-licence

Mamma mia! What's next?

Pasta, garlic and oil? By miracle or not - you will lick the plate...

I like to make myself believe that what’s coming next is more precious than any of the previous habits. Well, it doesn't show me what I already know, or what I prefer never to get to know; it goes easy on my mind and strict on my heart :O

… What's not to love? :)

My new fixation is patient, it is kind... Hey! Corinthians, bring it on! - "It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud (…) it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs...".

I like to make myself believe I’m blessed ;)

Eat it. Drink it. Love it.

This is how I found myself studying the philosophy of Italian life and language, power of pasta, and importance of a kick-your-day-off espresso.

Allora... much as I wish to be objective (and leave subjectivity to non-professionals), for once my drunk heart decided for me to FUCK! (yes, my drunk heart swears at times) the rules and to go with the flow. And the flow SOUNDS like Alessandro Mannarino, SMELLS like morning coffee and the unknown perfume that has won me over without introducing itself, TASTES like Pinot Grigio (given 6 on my 5-note scale!) with a twist of cigarette smoke (which I blindly adore, anyway), FEELS like a fresh-shaven kiss emerging from beneath a blanket which gets too small towards the dawn, and LOOKS like what I imagine to be my crisp, un-oaked and elegant dream (pizzicami!). It's a one big versatile flow, affecting all my senses (Fuck the Renaissance! Da Vinci is long dead and we are not from this planet!).

So what not to love?

Having no idea how to brew espresso, how to transform mere (?) pasta into the best dish ever, or which syllable to put accent on in “vincere”, against all odds I made my life orbit around a variedly understood Italian culture. Poor me!

Morning! :)

Dungue...
I made pasta my bread, ‘va bene’ my common answer, kisses my language, and his arms my home (:O).

What’s not to love?

Well, life is a matter of choices, and I like to make myself believe that from all the pastas out there, I chose the best one :) Buon Appetito!


Bonus track:

(And then she looked down and saw a miniature heart

y dentro del corazón pequeño ella ha visto un gato 'pequeñito'

e il gatto piccolo è sembrato di avere un piccolo cuore

a miniaturowe kocie serce - o dziwo! - pompowało jej krew!)

I spojrzała w dół by zobaczyć swoje miniaturowe serce

I w środku miniaturowego serca ujrzała miniaturowego kota

A miniaturowy kot zdawał się mieć miniaturowe serce

a miniaturowe kocie serce - o dziwo! - pompowało jej krew!

I co zrobić z takim kotem?

Co zabiera przestrzeń w sercu i rządzi krwią jak swoją…

I z takim futrem siwo-czarnym?

Co kicha na wszystkich wokół i wszystko…

Rozłożył się niczym zadomowiony i chrapie

a przecież go nie wyrzuci bo świat by jej ucichł boleśnie

I z serca go nie zepchnie bo od dziecka boi się zimy i chłodu

A i tak ma nadzieje że by wrócił

Kot zaczepia obcych, nadużywa kawy i cukru

I miauczy w języku, którego one nie rozumie

A jego miniaturowe oczy i nos i usta są pięknięjsze od niej

I każą jej tęsknić i myśleć i serce zapuszczać

Pfffffff!

I zniewolone są już jej oczy patrzące w dół na miniaturowe serce

I zniewolone jest jej miniaturowe serce z miniaturowym kotem

I zniewolone jest miniaturowe serce, które zdaje się mieć miniaturowy kot

I zniewolona jest już jej krew – pompowana zniewolonym sercem kota