Sunday, October 25, 2009


Get me outta here. Last time I was in Foggia (week or so ago) I put on three kilos.

We’ve just had a five kilo Sunday lunch, comprising, orecchiette (my favourite pasta) with a tomato sauce, torchellino (rolled and stuffed pork belly), fresh ricotta, percoche (a late harvest hard peach from Puglia, the sort they put in tins, great when dunked in red wine), cake, chestnuts and amaro, an Italian digestivo. Burp, excellent.

Nothing changes, cos I have a row with my mother. She tries to correct my Italian at every opportunity. I shouted at her because everyone (including her) understands what I’m saying. ‘Mum, at my age I have absolutely no intention of learning the grammar. Leave me alone. Stop correcting me. Why can’t you understand that?’
‘Most people would relish the opportunity to have their grammar corrected’, she shouted back at me in vain. It didn't help that I burst out laughing at that.

To shut her up I changed the subject. I mentioned that knowing that there was no way she’d leave Italy without taking back lots of goodies; I’d brought an empty suitcase with me. See what a bloody caring son and angel I am?

What a mistake. What a huge mistake. The conversation then switches to transporting jars of vegetables, liqueurs and anything weighing nothing less than two kilos. I try to calm everyone down and point out that it only takes seven items at two kilos each to blow the weight allowance. Pia, ever the pragmatist then insists that I pop to Ipercoop to buy lots of plastic bags and bubble wrap. Sorted, but a close shave nonetheless. Why don't I just learn to keep my mouth shut?

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