Every Monculenzi knows the blood pressure, sugar, triglyceride and every other measure of fellow citizens, as well as being able to recite their own as readily as the Catechism. All enjoy a remarkably high standard of living, given that the economy is supposed to be collapsing, bonds offered by the Italian government unsaleable, and Italy's imminent ejection from the Euro the source of Ambrose Evans-Pritchard's salivating joy (goodness knows why he so has it in for Italy -he can't keep his mouth shut on when and how horribly we are all going to receive our just deserts).
So how are we to reconcile what is on offer with what we may permit ourselves to consume (pace Ambrose)? Pausing at the butchers to take a salami, 2 etti of finocchiona, and a healthy helping of prosciutto , other customers were noted being seized with desire. The butcher was particularly irritated by half the queue wanting to buy the counter and the other half quoting the local health centre's latest scores. Unfortunately the pairings tended to be by household.
We, as a household, were united. '...Eat or you will die...' was sung as a grace in my Butlin's holiday camp childhood. The experience of post war austerity before the Italian miracle has faded, it seems, from the general Italian conciousness, though not from our family's.
I did wonder just how much populations are harried by the health police these days.
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3 comments:
The Monculians are fatalistic. If your destiny is having a stroke, you will have it regardless.
They are perfectly aware that a mixed grill - pig livers wrapped in slices of fat, spicy sausages, pork chops, streaky pork, thick beef steaks, spare ribs - preceded by pasta al sugo and washed down with lots of chianti will put you a bit more at risk, but they like the gamble.
I'd take a gamble on that. Salivating already. A mixed grill of perfection. I fear the mixed grill has all but disappeared from English cafe "cuisine"; time was when every self-respecting cafe did a mixed grill.
Liver obligatory. Liver, bacon & onion casserole a monthly treat for us, all farmers' market produce.
Food, luverly food.
wv : gulench. A very distant gulag.
We imagine we will be struck down, one moment tucking in, the next checking out. But it's more likely to drag about not working properly any more. If we want to eat like horses we'll have to go back to working like horses unfortunately.
I trust you are surviving on broccoli and salad, Mr H. Or coppicing from dawn to dusk.
Are you recovered Elby? If not then it's broccoli for you too. Casseroles are not invalid friendly.
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