Italian food is a food group. It’s the one food group that turns me into a vegetative state of mind filled with enough carbs to feed a third world country – and now I feel really bad about that. You can never have just a “little bit” of Italian food. No, no, no. You eat so much pasta, pizza, bread, and wine that you are no longer yourself. You’re just a gigantic slug, moving slowly and grumpy through life, waiting to be squashed due to your bad choices. I praise Italians and their wonderful, godly foods.
I have an Italian friend, and one day when she was giving me a ride, I walked into her house, only to stay for a few minutes. Her Italian father freaked, rummaged through the fridge to whip me up some food in case I was hungry. I don’t know where he got all of it, but within seconds, I had grilled shrimp, garlic bread, ravioli, bruschetta, and meatballs sitting under my nose. And I felt obligated to eat it all.
Sam and I recently tried an Italian restaurant down the street from our apartment. I’m a little upset that we’ve been living here a year and never tried the place because it was the best Italian food I’ve ever had. We loaded up on pizza, Chicken Alfredo, wine, and I swear I had eight large pieces of garlic bread. I wobbled home.
I don’t regret any of it. Even if my scale states that I gained 10 pounds in a matter of hours. Even if it felt like I was giving birth to an alien. Even if I rolled around in bed like a beach ball because of how uncomfortable I was. And the fact that it’s been 95 degrees everyday and I’m eating a shitload of carbs? Still don’t regret it.
Italian food…what do you do to me?