I got to Verona when it was still quiet, a day in advance. Paying my visit to a sick friend, what a contrast. The city was sunny, calm, green, not truly “heaven” but at least quite a decent shot of the “Romeo&Juliet” postcard the local administration would like to pass by. 

The following day was another story. The following day was the beginning of “Vinitaly 2012”. It sounds cheerful, doesn’t it? “Vinitaly”. Not so. It’s a mammoth, it’s a fierce win-a-thon where a “pavillion” is more like a KLM hangar fully loaded of stands and stalls, big and small, BIIIIIIIIG and small, HUUUUUGE and small, ENOOOOORMOUS and small. That sort of thing.

I love good wine, I switched to it many years ago, never went back. I don’t care how much a bottle costs, but how good it is. 

It seems that the universe is willing to share his (or her) thoughts with you, even the most trivial, no, I correct myself, ESPECIALLY the most trivial ones. Who gives a damn if you saw the new nissan micra passing by on the street? Uh? Who, WHO could possibly CARE about THAT? On the other side: how many deep, profound and important, life-changing sentences, articles, extracts, excerpts, novellas or vuvuzela have you read recently? Zero? Same here. People don’t think before writing! Hell, I’m know I’m not! But, and that’s the difference, I try at least to be playful with words, and make you laugh. Because I love you, you nasty filthy rotten bastards!

That said, let’s talk about food blog and food!

They call me “Stacey”. They call me “Jane”. They call me “dude”. I understand we are not dealing enough with food in this “food” blog, but, hey, life’s tough, get a fucking Arai, ok??? They call me names. I am not whining&moaning here, I am just, quite normally, pissed with the fact that people cannot resist the temptation to say things like “hey guys!” or “hey dude!” or “yo man!”, or whatever that bunch of matter which will be exchanged for waste in a few years they have in their head will suggest them. What’s wrong with my name? Can we have an age definition and STICK TO IT, forgossake? Uh? Please? ReallyfuckingPLEASE? Like, until 18, you’re a dude. Than you’ll be a “guy”, until you’ll be 29. From 30 onwards, you are a MAN, you know, those things with BALLS attached? That one. And if you’re good, and fight hard, and kick butts and have really a shiny killer twinkle in your eyes, than you’ll be called: “Sir”. I LIKE IT. I like “Sir”. I like the hissing sound of it, it rhymes with “don’t mess with me”. I like it.