A Little Pasta Party

I'm Italian, as I imagine you are too. Maybe it's just a sweeping cultural generalization, or we actually do have hotter blood pumping through our veins. Either way, we only deal in one of two emotions: unrelenting rage and jubilant gaiety. Rarely do the two mix. Except in the bedroom. The joy is brought about by many things such as pie, booze and the gentle purrs of my cat. The rage is triggered by mostly everything...from misplaced sunglasses to one of the good plates getting broken. Nothing is too small to get worked up about. Unfortunately for you non-Italians, there's no delicate way to deal with these unpredictable bouts of passion. It's best just to wait it out because there will probably be a pasta dish once the tantrum subsides. I keep this relic of my dad's college days in my kitchen to warn strangers that they're walking on eggshells. 

A Little Pasta Sunday

If you're reading this, it probably means you're also awake at 4:30 in the morning. In my new life as semi-professional baker for Bang Bang Pie Shop I keep the hours of a farmer. That means waking up before the rooster crows and going to sleep sometimes before the sun even sets. That being said, it beats the hell out of corporate life.  I'm on a vision quest folks, I'll see ya when I run out of peyote. The plus side is that it's really brought my cat and I closer together. In the case of yesterday morning, Baby Toulouse's never-ending appetite for crushed up pretzels and water got me out of bed on time, after I slept through my alarm. I'd say sorry for the long gap between posts, but if you're really that into my blog, your life is probably sad.