Today, Martha was making small talk with the downstairs neighbor while I was cooking a rabbit.
She found out that another neighbor had discovered one of the prehistoric stelle statues that is now on display in the museum in Pontremoli. He found it right behind our house.
Then, of course, just as things were getting boring, the talk turned to food.
Martha announced that we were having rabbit.
“Not SUPERMARKET RABBIT!?” exclaimed Gabriella, slapping her face as if she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had the nerve to admit shopping in a supermarket.
“Why, um, yes.”
“You must get your rabbit from a contadino! They’ve got the real rabbits!”
Ok, so I’m pretty sure they didn’t give me my own contadino when I purchased my little bit of heaven. I’ll have to check that contract I can’t read. Food is so complicated in Italy.
I wonder if we do the same in the states to our immigrant population? “Oh, you ate at the State Street McDonald’s!? Why that’s about the worse McDonald’s in the universe, Juanita! You should go to the main street McDonald’s. Bob Krueger is a whiz at the burger steamer. He watches those frozen mystery-meat patties chug down the assembly line and into the heat machine like no other. He’s the cat’s meow, that Bob! You haven’t had a McDonalds burger until you’ve sunk your pearly whites into one of Bob’s Big Macs!”
Still, I’m wondering how to contact my contadino. Do they have cell phones? When you sign up, do they just dump furry creatures on your porch when the need to unload a batch arises? Do they shrink wrap their rabbits? Do they shoot them right behind your house?
Like the side-view mirror on the rental car, in Italy, everything is closer than it appears—even your food.
Other Tales from the Lunigiana
Culla di Bratto, The Magical Cradle of the Lunigiana
Ristorante Per ... Bacco Review | Aulla