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| my downfall... |
I knew as soon as I saw the little ciambella, that I must have it, but I also knew that to have one would likely cause great physical distress. However, one must weigh moments of true happiness carefully in comparison to the potential resulting pain..
We were strolling one cool summer evening, through the final night of a Partito Democratico festival (the left leaning political party of Italy’s current fresh faced leader, Renzi.) We passed by stalls and tents full of used books, incense, free Tibet info, pizza, assorted sweets and hippy clothes (otherwise known as ‘clothes I like to wear.’) I stopped to watch at one stall as a man shaped dough into hand sized rounds before dropping them into a giant deep fryer. On another counter, hot, golden fried orbs glistened as they cooled. Two woman then liberally doused each doughy bite of heaven with sugar before arranging them as a display to tempt ravenous pilgrims such as myself.
Unfortunately though, there are two types of food that, without fail, cause a nearly immediate need for a toilet... ‘Deep Fried’ and ‘Creme.’ But there are two types of food that I truly love...
After walking by the ciambelle stall 3 times, I decided to ignore ALL past experiences with my digestive system. As I lovingly picked my very own sweet ciambella, the server woman gestured to multiple pastry bags full of potential filling... chocolate creme, vanilla creme, limoncello creme, Nutella (holy mother of GOD!!) I gestured to the simple vanilla and watched as she stabbed the center of my ciambella, inflating it with euphoric amounts of fatty goodness.
I picked up my newly adopted ciambella.. now weighing in at at least a kilo, and I bit through the golden crispy outside, tasting the soft warm spongy center. Oil dripped onto my fingers and hands as my lips became coated with sugar. My eyes rolled back as I sighed rapturously, thanking the gods in all forms.
Ten minutes later...
“Oh No, we need to go home NOW!”
“We are about 30 minutes away. Can you make it?”
“I think so..” said haltingly while breaking into a cold sweat..
Italy’s Florentine 13th-century poet Dante (otherwise known as Il Sommo Poeta,) devised many gleefully imaginative punishments for woeful sinners in his Purgatorio; the envious had their eyes sewn shut, the proud crushed under rocks, the slothful forced to run incessantly. However, I propose a change to his punishment of the gluttonous. Rather than having the overeaters starve while surrounded by overly tall trees full of succulent fruit, I propose that the punishment for a life lived stuffing one’s self silly must include a lengthy (years long) ride on the back of a scooter, over painfully uneven cobblestones while one’s intestines are trying to turn themselves inside out.
SamPietrini is the endearing name of the heavy, square volcanic stones that pave the tiny streets of Rome’s city center. Sharing the namesake of the basilica that centers the catholic church, these little Saint Peters add character and loveliness to an ancient city. They also add misery and torment to the life of those who head downtown to overindulge in the culinary joys of Italy. We raced home over the crooked bumpy streets while I prayed to a sadistic Saint Peter and tried to internally manage the waves of abdominal cramping. Despite the unimagined closed roads, despite backtracking, despite catching every red light (which is only a suggestion to stop...) despite getting stuck behind not just one but TWO buses on narrow streets, We made it home before digestive armageddon.. just..
Twenty minutes later...
As I sat exhausted on the couch, the cold sweat and spasms receding, I reflected on the night’s events.
“I really wish I had another ciambella right now ”
