Have you seen my mind anywhere?

I had a dream the other day…
I did a lot of not getting out of bed for “reasons” this past weekend but at least the time spent unconscious was time well spent. That is the like I like to tell myself anyway.
In one dream, at a burlesque show, or festival or whatever, there was a performer by the name of Filthy Prosciutto. If I remember it correctly, that is.
It may have been the short version of Filthy Prosciutto di Parma, The Filthy, Fecund Secret of Emilia-Romagna, who can say?
I checked, the name Filthy Prosciutto is available, if you think you can be dirty enough to live up to it.
…and the keyword is DIRT.
Emilia-Romagna is one of Italy’s more unsung regions, yet its food has conquered the world—or at least the table. The soil in the Arda Valley, millions of years of silt, washed down from the Alps and Apennines and deposited into this great bowl by the flooding of the Po River—lays meters deep. It’s a rich brown humus (not hummus, which is ground chickpeas), fine, dense, almost chocolaty. This stuff—mere dirt—is the building block of the wealth, strife, and food of the Po Valley, the great plain at the heart of Italian agriculture.
The story of Emilia-Romagna is the story of that soil, which grows the grass that feeds the cows that flavor the milk that makes the Parmesan cheese taste so good just down the road in Parma. This is the soil that sprouts the corn and wheat that fatten the pigs that become the ham that becomes prosciutto di Parma. This is the brown muck, fantastically productive, that grows the Trebbiano grapes, cooked down into the aged vinegar balsamico di Modena, unsurprisingly in the town of that name, just another half hour along the A1. And beyond that, right down the curve of the immense plain—the largest flat place in Italy—all the products of this soil have been gathered into Bologna, which is not a cheapo deli lunch meat of questionable origin but one of Italy’s great, innovative trading cities, whose nimble-minded gourmets invented much of what passes for Italian food around the globe. Ravioli? Tagliatelle? Lasagna? Polenta? Tortellini? Half of all pasta shapes? All from Emilia-Romagna.
I am so hungry right now. I’ve never been to Italy, and likely never will because I am poor, but I can dream the dreams of the poor who watch PBS.

Dreams are always better than reality anyway.

Someone recently asked if the overprocessed foods that we, The Impoverished, are sometimes forced to consume, might be the source of all the recent acts of violence.
I am not sure if they are serious or not.
I think that attempting to pin these events on any singular source is merely an act of sheer folly, a foolhardy quest for a magic bullet to solve all our woes. They say Nature abhors a vacuum, but I feel it truly just dislikes simplicity. A single cause with an equally singular solution would surely turn Nature’s stomach.
On the other hand, they also say you are what you eat, and I must confess that there are days I feel like a ground down flavorless paste with no nutritional value and that feeling does potentially fill me with rage.

So this hypothesis might have some merit.

About Rick Wasserman

Here is my second round of blogging as my first round in Blog 1 seems to have evaporated. I have been writing for decades. Most of it is crap, but you probably figured that out on your own.
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