La Dolce Vita

There are pictures of pasta in my computer's recycling bin. This is not because I personally wished to collect such images, but because I placed on them on my third blog. Yes, my third. This blog, however, is dedicated to the Italian foods class that I am taking this semester, titled La Dolce Vita. In other words--literally--The Sweet Life. Though I wasn't initially thrilled at the prospect of creating another blog, I know that it require me to frequently post comments, responses, short essays, and the like--all of which will revolve around Italian cuisine.

My personal goal is to write an entry on this blog with each food-related post. That way, I am motivating myself to keep my blogs updated and upgraded. In fact, I plan to redo the layout of this blog very soon (hopefully this week).

I also managed to carry on a couple of themes from this blog into that one. However, instead of a line that describes the song that is currently in my head, I list what I am physically craving.

Earlier, it happened to be mussels. Seafood portafino, to be exacter.

Though probably full of calories, I assume that it must be healthier than the innumerable amount of jelly beans, sugar cookies, and chocolate-encrusted rice cereal treats I have been eating lately.

Unfortunately, I am now hungry. And tired. This does not make for a satisfactory combination, and it reminds me of a small incident that occurred over break.

My home in Iowa is quaint, a 1920s bungalow with more than an abundance of what some call "character." We have bats that reside in our attic and screech if we turn on the kitchen light at night. Our bathroom door cannot be closed, as it locks itself. We call the light switch to the basement "Sparky" for obvious reasons. Furthermore, there is no ceiling in my closet, and no overhead lights in the bathroom. We do have, however, a vent above the oven that--when left open--invites birds into our kitchen.

Our house also has a clothes chute, which I love. It is nice to be in the bathroom in the morning, peeling off the sweatpants from the night before and tossing them into the small hatch hidden behind the cupboard.

The chute does give us some issues at times, though, especially when we are tired. For instance, I once was carrying some dirty clothes in my left hand, and two pieces of trash in my right. Gooey pieces of trash, those were--one was a day-old banana peel. In my sleep-deprived state, I solemnly trudged to the bathroom and opened the bathroom cupboard. I tossed the contents of my right hand down the chute and closed the door. Walking into the kitchen, I located the trash can (which mom always seems to move around). As I neared it, I threw the items from my left into it. Slowly, as I watched the arm of one of my sweatshirts fold over the edge of the trash can, I realized that I had actually put the trash down the clothes chute, and thrown my clothes on top of greasy poultry organs.

My mother has been so tired, for example, that she accidentally put the milk away in the cupboard once. We found it the next day, already curdled.

This time, however, mom did something else.

I was in the bathroom, fresh out of a shower. I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, rubbing some obscenely named Bath & Body Works product on my calves. I heard my mom's laughter before I heard her knock on the door.

"Do you know what I just did?" she asked, still giggling.

"Nooooo. What?"

"Remember the time that I put the milk in the fridge?"

"Of course."

"Do you know how tired I am? I just put my book in the fridge."

Fortunately for the book, I will not be craving it anytime soon. I'll stick to portafino and other Italian related cuisine. Although I will soon become more versed in the art of Italian food, I highly doubt that native Italians actively and literally devour literature.


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