Word: pasta
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Clearly the tray lobby knows that if we had to make extra tray-less trips to the servery, we would grow strong and supremely coordinated, balancing our crispy fish sandwiches, bowls of Frosted Mini Spooners, cups of chocolate milk, and organic pasta dishes. They plot instead to fatten us up, dulling our minds and bodies to their (crimson-is-crimson-not-green) treachery...
...That Knocking At My Door:) "It is all there, in the first film, almost all in the first twenty minutes: the themes and obsessions, the images and character types that would inspire Martin Scorsese for the whole of his career. A shot of his mother, kneading pasta. A statue of the Virgin Mary. Young men from the neighborhood, in an argument that explodes into a fight. Rock and roll on the soundtrack. A headlong, hand-held shot preceding the two fighters as one tries to escape down the sidewalk and the other chases him, hitting him with a pole...
...soft, girlie hands, know about real life?) Palin, in this picture, is real because she eats moose. Obama is not real, because he eats arugula. Yet arugula is served at strip-mall chains like the Olive Garden and Panera. Rachael Ray--not exactly a food snob's idol--makes pasta and beef tenderloin with it. I have looked in vain for her mooseburger recipe. Why are you so out of touch with yourself, America...
...impression of your character informsa me that you cannot enjoy spaghetti.”“Of course not!” Felicity said. “It’s always so...limp.”“Let me introduce you to another kind of pasta, the pasta of true Italianos,” Ollie said, as they began to stroll away. “True pasta!” he cried, for emphasis. “Wide—and smooth—and long.”* * * * *Frederick had spent the last week reading...
...needed in the mixer and judge the doneness of my frittata by its firmness. After slicing watermelon every morning for breakfast, I could wield a knife as deftly as a pencil. I could give porcini mushrooms a sponge bath with my eyes closed. I knew the recipe for egg pasta by heart and they counted on me to make the daily batch of dough. By the end of my stay, my ankles were swollen, my forearms were burnt, and I couldn’t eat another bite of pasta. But I couldn’t have been more thankful. Maybe...