It was 78°F (25°C) today.It made me realize how much I have missed the sun.
Until I stepped outside, I couldn’t really remember what it felt like to be warm. Winter is strange that way– that way it makes us forget.
I suppose that is a round about way of trying to say: I am floating a bit right now.
The sensation surely has something to do with the upcoming calendar milestone dangling on the horizon. (There is nothing quite like a birthday to make you take stock).
And when you are floating, there’s nothing quite like crispy, fatty, herby porchetta to bring you back down to reality.
The first time I ever ate porchetta, I was a wee child of 25. It was my first week in Italy, and my professor had suggested the class take a break from economics to drink wine.
We acquiesced, naturally.
We imbibed. Oh, how we imbibed.
We drank from a literal fountain of wine. Wine flowed, we staggered, and eventually I found myself sitting on a step shoveling porchetta and pizza bianca into my face.
In that moment, I thought: THIS is Italy. Italy is wine, and porchetta, and sometimes maybe, rarely, other commitments.
But mainly wine and porchetta.
I was young(er) and naive… and not entirely wrong.
Sometimes you just need to add in an XL supplì or two.
Actually, not two- just one. One carbonara supplì.
Egg and bacon and cheese. Heavy enough to stand up against the porchetta.
Weighty enough to dampen your self-pity at the thought of getting older.
Older but wiser– which is why tomorrow I am smart enough to be off to Spain for a week of cava and celebration.
You can catch all that on instagram.
But for the porchetta, head here:
I Porchettoni (San Lorenzo)
Via dei Marrucini, 18
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