was all day waiting to get home to cook. Olga's meatballs, the purpetta Olga, the fantastic and super vulgar dishwasher Greek restaurant in Sorrento, Australia.
get home and I feel like a smell of meat, cooked. I hear the fan oven which still flies.
questioningly looked at my mother and she, with her usual voice stritula: "Well, the meatballs I made you mine because I thought, and if you get tired from work and hungry?".
The little heart of many of you, would shake the majority of tenderness to hear that.
Instead I turned my dick.
Why 'ste fucking purpetta expecting them for months, second, because I thought about all day, coming home from the station, I thought to myself, then, let's see, the chopped onions to the mixer or by hand? There I put a lot? I do not remember, they knew a sacchissimo of onions or not? etc.., I needed an outlet to the feeling of claustrophobia that gives me 'the work in a closed place, I felt the need to put your hands in the dough. But
. The little voice
stritula.
All loving and caring.
And the thought of being treated like a baby stoned to the age of 30.
And the awareness that a few months ago I had no timetable, responsibility, doing what I wanted, what I wanted when I wanted without having to answer to anyone.
And maybe a hair of pre-crisis premenstrual announced, inter alia, by the desire of crazy crap. And I
Sbrocco.
I tried to hold me.
I went to the bathroom to wash my hands calm.
But then I did.
And I'm out of the bathroom and I told my mother that is overwhelming, that I've got 12 years, this morning I told her, do not worry, I make meatballs tonight when I get back from work, asked me what the fuck to do things if he does his own thing? and that is overwhelming, that I do not die of hunger and that is always thinking about food.
Emminchia.
I know, I could stop myself, but oh!
And I know, has been keeping me at my house and I should lower the ears and stay silent.
But oh!
I think I've reached the peak of cruelty when I said that I can not wait to go again.
Eh, oh!
's true.
I can not wait.
Today it was the first paycheck.
:)
My climbing the flight is shorter.
's all a bit' hazy at the moment, that is, know what and where I want to go, to be determined is when.
For good luck I say nothing, when I saw all spiffererò and airline tickets.
But okay, back to the evening.
I looked back in with green beans and boiled unseasoned I sprang from the ferocious teeth, had to do something.
And then we go to banana bread. The recipe of my cousin Claudia strophic.
There's only one banana, small pure and not so mature, but oh, be satisfied. I will try to reduce all the other ingredients, also because the mold that I have, last time I did that everything was in danger of overflowing. So let's start.
begin to gather the ingredients, roll out the chilled butter "cream" together with the sugar, an egg, do I close the door of the fridge and one of my usual athletic moves, I drop the egg on the ground. Fuck the Buddha.
I look at the egg for a split second, with the power of thought try to reassemble it for almost 3 seconds I am convinced that I see wrong and in fact he has not broken. Yes
's right. Then slam
eyelids, "Stop take the piss", I said a little voice inside my head.
And take the egg, sucks, cold, clammy, run everywhere. And take the cloth and clean and dry.
Ok, we're almost there. Take another egg, the hill gently on the shelf. Continue.
reach out my hand to take the yeast: THERE '.
with blasphemy under his breath I started to turn the belief. It 's impossible that there is, do you remember when we went all'Esselunga I got some sachets and in the meantime I have not done anything with yeast, where the hell is he?! No way, no.
But now the butter is already irrevocably sfratacchiato sugar. I can not postpone until tomorrow.
I look around stunned. My mother tries so a hint of comfort.
not even feel it.
desperate fury as I head to the phone and call the mother of Mario. What
as 99% of the cases I save with an ingredient from his belief.
Blessed mother of Mario.
As usual though, just go into that house, I'm a vomit of words. I think I do it every time so I can mirror and reflect one hundred thousand times at the entrance. The mirror makes me a cunt Hollywood scary.
Ok, ok, I'll be due to the dusty little treasure in your pocket. After half an hour kind of talk.
and banana bread was incomplete.
to vent all the adrenaline I've eaten in two minutes of two squares and a little nutty Novi 'bullets licorice covered in milk chocolate, made in Australia.
Eccheè!
But it was not enough.
I needed an outlet film.
And now, only Quentin can give me anti anxiety confirmations. Only the crazy and I loved Tarantino.
And I let myself be lulled by the notes and the fighting in Kill Bill. The first. Better the second. Tomorrow I'm going with the latter, it should be. And will I know that the entire filmography to menstruation.
I go shower, go ...
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