Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Call It Mussolini's Revenge

Last night, I was thumbing through a collection of Truman Capote's letters (Too Brief a Treat: The Letters of Truman Capote, edited by Gerald Clarke) when I read a 1949 letter that was penned by Capote to his friend, Andrew Lyndon, after Capote had been living in Italy for several months.

In the letter, Capote writes that his stomach "has finally revolted against Italian food."

Is this possible? I think I could eat Italian for a whole year straight without annoying either my stomach or my taste buds. Osso bucco. Risotto. Tiramisu. Spaghetti bolognese. Brunello di Montalcino. Panna cotta. Prosciutto with melon. Don't those words qualify as verbal foreplay?

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