Our relationship began with my quick peek at a wildly pornographic image in Thomas Cahill’s popular book, How the Irish Saved Civilization. An ancient goddess, Sheela is rendered symbolically, stripped of all but the essential features. She is naked, bald, and breastless, and reaches both arms behind her bent legs, using her hands to …
The instructions were unnerving: Boil olive oil in a hot pan, lay the horsemeat in flat, and turn it when it starts to rise. I tried hard not to visualize horseflesh rearing up out of a pan of boiling oil. We were in search of the “Puglian delicacy” I had read about in a guidebook and was determined not to miss.
The most practical of the lot suggested we simply throw a brick through the window, “She’ll be right, mate!” But there were no bricks to be had in Glen Helen, so I went inside, bummed some change, and phoned A1. It turned out the only spare key was in their Alice Springs office, more than 800 miles away …
It was perfectly seasoned, salty enough to compel another bite, and with just a tease of pepper, that came onto the tip of my tongue well after I had swallowed the rest. What ultimately seduced me was the generous texture—the gentle pop, a creamy chew, and only then the peppery suggestion. This could easily become my favorite food, except for the fact of what it is: Blood.
Was this what Pisa had become? Tourists herded from one attraction to another, planning their day around the bus schedule, purchasing silly plastic mementos destined to gather dust on far-away bookshelves? I looked more closely.
One taste and I became a mussel maniac. When cooked, the smooth, flesh-like morsels tightened and huddled—warm and peach-colored, sweet and tender—at the edge of their rough blue-black shells. They hunkered there, clinging, small and succulent, as if anticipating the approach of my hungry tongue and teeth. The mussels’ slippery folds released trickles of the dish’s rich juices, inviting exploration.
