Cherries are the local product. Every region (well, perhaps zone would be more accurate) has its speciality. Some ghastly, poverty-stricken disaster zones go on about acqua cotta - cooked water, gives a complete description - others go OTT with giant platters of boiled dead animals, but here we do cherries. We start out with pale gold and white cherries, small, slightly tart but infinitely Spring-like after the winter, move on to the red cherries that go into clafoutis as well as straight down your throat, and end gloriously with plump, black, juicy almost apple-sized mouthfuls.
Every cherry comes with its own in-built missile, ready for spitting at real and virtual foes. So I sit on the big terrace and spit cherry stones at passing Fascists. By the time they arrive two floors down to street level they have lost much of their force and go unnoticed, which probably is best as Fascists are not cowards, they are perfectly, indeed reliably, capable of swarming up the downpipes and making me drink oil where I sit.
5 comments:
Mind you, it's castor oil they are supposed to make you drink, it's not funny. But you have enough flowerpots to drop on them to repel an attack. Mind Tiberio, he is a distant cousin.
Who isn't?
Awfully good-looking, Tiberio.
Nice to see a bit of old tongue-in-cheek creeping into this blog.
It was getting a bit too serious; I was worrying about your blood-pressure, Hats, all this ranting about politics is not good for one.
My grandmother use to make us drink a spoonful of castor oil if she had run out of cod liver oil tablets. She said it stopped us getting winter colds. I think she was a bit confused about which did what. A bag of cherries would have been a lot less fascist- oz anon
OZ! All of you? Castor oil?
My ascendant generations on both sides considered olive oil something to be warmed then applied to the ear in drops for easing ear ache. Drink the stuff? Cook with it? Dress with it? They'd prefer to die with suet and beef dripping.
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