Berries and Sunday Lunch

Today I went berry picking at "La casa dei nonni" (the house of the grandparents). Tra-la-la-la-laaaaaa....



I felt like little red riding hood in reverse - that I was taking berries from the grandfolks, not bringing. The berry bush I was to violate was precariously perched on the side of an eight foot drop... on the neighbour's side of the fence! And the big bad wolf? Well there were two, locked inside the vacant warehouse on the same property. Nonna told me to not jump the fence on account of the shoulder high stinging nettles. "Fair enough" I thought, but when our backs were turned, Nonno - grandfather, great-grandfather of 85 years jumps the chest-high spiky edged fence and he's in there picking berries amongst the nettles. Same 85 year old who climbed a tree only several months ago only to fall out of it and fracture a vertebrae. I joined him soon after (it is Red Riding Hood's pleasure to tackle the wild forest after all) and pretty soon we had the berries in hand and the bush berry-less. There must be something in the water...



The berries... I can't remember what they're called... Andrea asked me to pick them to give to Maria Pia - the Rosy and buxom Mother-of-Andrea's-best-mate (and didge player extraordinaire) Manuel. Maria Pia, as well as dealing out Moncalvo's best pastries and cakes (and mum-sized hugs when required) from the family patisserie, she is now turning her expertise to the making of some kind of liqueur with these berries. Good for digesting your meal for you when you've eaten so much your body cant keep up the digestive-acid supply, and I bet it tastes alright too.



That aside, I did nearly pass out onto my lunch-time plate on Sunday - only partly from my usual pasta-related coma. I had no idea that most favoured portion of the chicken among some carnivores is the head and neck. Marilena, after showing me the chook in pan (with head) generously gave it up for Antonello. I felt myself go pale as I glanced at the plate in front of me and the nice portion of white meat, in my mind's eye, took the full, vital and very much alive form of the whole chicken. It was like in a cartoon mind bubble when the roast on the plate comes to life and says "don't eat me. please dont eat me".Home-grown or not, needless to say, I couldnt finish it and I barely looked in Antonello's direction as he dissected the head and neck with surgical precision and crunched down on the beak.



There is a whole procedure that comes with Sunday lunch with the family. Im sure they dont even notice it, but there is a flow, a routine, a pecking-order so-to-speak, although the pecking can really happen between anyone (and it does) but I will write about that another time.



Sissi (the little grey kitten) is fine - she has recently discovered the pleasure of sleeping on beds (a far cry from the ironing table) and has learnt how to climb me like a tree to sneek a peek at whatever I might be up to. She has grown into her "adult" fur and her "big-cat" meow but has a firm addiction to suckling, which I find endearing and annoying at the same time. I have to admit that I am reluctant to stop her in case I cause some irreparable kitty-hood trauma and scar her for life - she might become a vengeful teenager. Or worse... like Cesere.



I dont know how he is still alive. He's limping, bleeding - the wound on the side of his head is bigger and weeping gunk. He's skinny and mournful. He seriously looks like he's just had the sh*t beaten out of him and wants to curl up and RIP.

CESERE