Full of Bolonga.
Bologna, Italy is known as la grassa, la dotta and la rossa. The fat, the learned, and the red. It’s the center of culinary delights in Italy, the home of the oldest university in the world, and has a history of communist flair, as well as a lot of buildings awash in brick red.
The people of Bologna love their food, but I do not envy “la grassa.”
It’s tempting to imagine not caring about your physical body anymore. Reaching the point where nothing matters. Cholesterol, calories, fat… all meaningless words. Your stomach stretched to the size of two or three, like some otherworldly creature or farm animal. The shame of it all having long left you, you relish in every bite of food as sweat drips off your forehead and seasons your meal. You are a glamorously grotesque king sitting on your throne being fed the sweetest grapes and the richest cheeses. Wine dribbles down your chin like a gorging vampire. Your royal table is so laden with culinary treasures it sags and strains under the weight. Life is good. Robustness is equal to wealth, power and prosperity.
That all sounds lavish and delectable, but all scrumptious feasts end the same way- a big shit.
The arduous process of digestion is what usually deters me from over indulgence. It’s like going into labor without the happy results. Laying around propped up, your guts in tangles, waiting for a tiny hole to be ready to disburden you of this huge mass. Your body is focusing all of it’s resources to chemically and mechanically break down this disgusting conglomeration you’ve stuffed down inside it. Leaving you awake and uncomfortable, wishing you were ballsy enough to just make yourself vomit and end this torture.
It’s taken me ten days and my face is rossa, but I think I’ve finally become one of the la dotta. Tomorrow’s menu: insalata, insalata, insalata.
