Italian Crime Story

On September 6th, 2018, at 10:17 p.m., I ordered pizza. Autumn was somewhat near, and something called “Early Leaves” seemed appropriate. The leaves were made of bresaola, something I have always loved, and so I ate the three leaves, accompanied by some roasted pine nuts, first, after taking a picture of course, and then something quite peculiar happened. For some inexplicable reason, I didn’t finish the rest and left over most of it; I got distracted, I suppose, but by whom? By what? The next morning, I forgot to put it in the fridge and so the maid disposed of it. Why I am telling you this? Because this is an untold crime story, a most foul one, as there’s no crime more sinful, more inexcusable, more unforgivable than Italian food waste. A crime of which I’m guilty of in the first degree. Please save a prayer for me…

Family dinner.

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For family dinners, I’m always in charge of dessert. Today, it’s going to be raspberries with cream. It’s easily prepared, I open the fridge for the cream and the freezer for the raspberries, and I’m done. And then, all while sipping Chardonnay, I witness the rest of the meal being prepared, artichokes are being cooked, a vinaigrette is being composed, lots of French mustard and Italian olive oil form a beautiful entente cordiale, parsley from the garden is being “haché-menu”-ed, ever so fresh chanterelles are being cut, not from the garden but from the grocer, the table is being set, by whom actually, my father, I suppose, gee, that Chardonnay is really drinkable, and all of a sudden, I’m the last one missing at the table, I better join them, hey, they’re are having red wine, okay, fine with me, bon appétit.

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