Wednesday, October 27, 2010


Unless you are Italian, you cannot possibly understand my love for bruschetta. Toasted bread with oil, topped with tomatoes and parsley and peppers and all sorts of delicious herbs, combine to create something comparable to sex in my mouth.

I've eaten bruschetta in too many restaurants to count, but my favorite by far is the kind my grandmother (and consequently, my mother) makes. I currently have a slight stomachache simply because I could not resist eating just one more of Nonna's bruschettas.

It is a familiar process to me - I sit in my room, oblivious to the deliciousness in my near future. Suddenly, I smell it; first the bread, then the tomatoes, and then the herbs.

"Can it be?" I ask myself.

"Dinner!" my mother calls.

I sprint downstairs and bank a hard left into the kitchen. "Mom, did you make-"

I see it.

I swoop in for the kill.

I enjoy.

(And by the way, it's pronounced "bru-sket-ta".)

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