What do you get ready for dinner? Something that surprised, because I want to be proud of myself and my creativity. Away from the pesto pasta and potatoes, the spinach and ricotta cakes and even offal Venetian, floured with artichokes and onion. And so the fish do not know what to cook and eat it recently. For years I have done without due of an ancient fear passed down from my mother, who escaped a bone to clean the fish they hunted in my throat killing me. So when I was not so small to me my mother chewed pieces of fish. If satisfied with the absence of the bones I passed the bolus, recommended to be careful. My grandfather, his father, also ate the fish head and eyes, while the thorns regurgitated cleared his throat, as one who has gone cold. The take from the mouth with his fingers and threw them into the pot. How should a man do. But my mom does not have a man pulled up, pulled on me. My grandfather ate roast pheasant and spit in the plate lead shot. My grandfather for several reasons spit in the hand that feeds.
Tonight nothing pre-cooked, nothing frozen. No pizza delivery, no sushi takeaways. Nothing How about a Mexican? Call tandoori chicken and Eritrean cuisine that anoints the hands and turn your stomach. I cook what I say. And among the aisles of the supermarket on Viale Jenner push a cart full of empty shelves in human consciousness that one has to eat to live. It would be enough bread and soup in chicken broth, cooked or raw vegetables, fruit, and a steak or two a week but no. The contradictory and schizophrenic view of nutritionists, dietitians and naturopaths in all places have generated packets concentrated molecules of vitamins and nutrients that strengthen the body and prevent stroke and cancer, in the form of mozzarella. The vulgarity of canned food that desperately screams from the shelf of being orphaned in fat, or claims to help you shit on a regular basis. Cows have grazed on certified organic fields on land confiscated from the mafia, away from illegal dumping of radioactive waste are kept by farmers graduates murder victims lie in thick slices, bloody health and nature, under clear plastic. It's hard to imagine the industrial process behind the pack of biscuits broken and irregular. Made by a machine programmed to break them and print them in an irregular way, because the facts seem to be the hands of a baker and not a stepper and hydraulic presses. And the food then, as if they are morbidly placed against each other, military in neat rows on the shelves and by force alone leads them to mate with each other. I can not explain otherwise why I always buy things with the taste of something else. Biscotti flavored cappuccino, strawberry or detergents with emollient cream, which smooth and protect the skin of the hands, as do the cosmetics. Cosmetics fruit. Snacks become dried ice cream. Yogurt and water against aging, against cholesterol. The water will soon find its way to the drinks cost more money, because, he vows, will not only quench your thirst, but will do well to your body. And I do not see why the water should never be hurt by my body. Unless it is pumped directly from the channels drainage of the city of Caracas.
And I remember the lighting for my dinner tonight. I marinated monkey. I try to ask a blue collar in which aisle I can find it. I
He sends us.
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