Comfort food, me dying here and you eating pasta and potatoes
Comfort Food. The other day I also dipped two slices of coarse bread in a pool of tomato sauce. Mopping up the sauce. They say it's comfort food. Did I feel comforted? Pretty much, come on. In the evening I made myself pasta e fagioli. I like it a little soupy, with dried borlotti beans.
Maybe it's simplicity that brings us relief. But is all this comfort a good thing? Are we sure that feeling better is a good thing? I can't find peace as I dip Bonci's bread in tomato sauce, made with a nice sauté of onions. There's that song by De Gregori, "Bene," where he talks about this, I think. He envies his friends. He who torments himself: "Bene, if you tell me you also find flowers in this story, they're yours." He who suffers from the complexity of his feelings, envies his friends who "with long black scarves and light eyes, have chosen simplicity." There, a little comfort. But then, in the end, these friends are simple but assholes, simply assholes: "If Luigi leans toward the water, it's none of his business." And this little pasta in broth, this pasta and potatoes, that I'm making in the kitchen alone, closed in my shell, aren't they a sign of selfishness? Him who's dying over there and me who's eating pasta and potatoes? Then I'll go out, come on. I need some fresh air. I'm going to look for Luigi. Maybe, if I find the right restaurant, I'll stop for lunch.
the mixed pasta. I try to tame
the hot potatoes. To court
the lard. To follow
the thread of fresh provola, wrapped in a cloud of steam
