Sosanni V. – an unconventional. highly caffeinated. writer. artist. gastronaut. culture maven. and her digital atelier.
I mentioned amazing first lines before…when writing about the puttanesca.
Did you ever come across THE PERFECT FIRST LINE of a novel? The ten-ton opening line of a tale…
THE ONE THAT TELLS ITS OWN STORY. IN THOSE FIRST FEW WORDS.
I HAVE.
But I must admit, I don’t come across these lines often.
Not every novel needs one.
But when I find one? I collect it.
If you collect these ‘things’ also, add this line to your stash.
Accidents ambush the unsuspecting, often violently, just like love.
– Andrew Davidson, The Gargoyle
Boom! You can feel the impact of this first line. It says it all—about life, love, and the unexpected.
Pasta in the style of the prostitute? No. That is not what the dish is about.
‘Puttanesca’ is not meant in a derogatory way.
‘The whore style pasta? ‘Now that would be a slur.
And this dish is not meant to be a slur.
Pasta in the style of the prostitute? In english that doesn’t make sense.
The older the language, the older the culture, the more cultural nuance is present in the way the language expresses societal ‘character’ and ‘vibe.’
All legends and ignorant conjecture aside, the truth is that the name alludes to what the prostitute and the brothel hold as a ‘nuanced’ societal presence in their world at the time—spoken by the essence of that way of life and expressed by the senses.
And the dish? It is savored openly in a world so different and far beyond any legendary Neapolitan nights of the past.
This is a meal that is fast and fiery.
It is pungent. Strong.
Its heady aroma? Overtaking.
Interior of a brothel in Naples, Italy 1945 – Five prostitutes waiting for customers.
Old photoscan, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Food is rarely just fuel. Sometimes a meal offers a rebellion suspended in its ingredients.*
Sosanni
Or social commentary woven into its method of preparation.
Or unspoken tales attached to its history.
But the allure of pasta alla puttanesca? Is it due to its ingredients? Its aroma? Or its name?
Doesn’t matter.
This dish is the culinary equivalent of a ten-ton opening line of a tale: the kind of line that hits you all at once and stands alone because the line itself contains a whole universal story and more—unapologetically.
It is rebellious by nature.
*I love the idea of rebellion suspended in a sauce.
That idea is one of the pinnacles high points of food culture.
I can’t use the word “pinnacle” anymore because it took on a new meaning.
In season 4 episode 3 of Bridgerton, there was a conversation between Francesca and Penelope regarding achieving a pinnacle—the how-tos and what happens. A confidential chat between two women about orgasm.
Yup. Apparently, “pinnacle” is a euphemism from the days of Regency for the big O.
And I was about to tag food culture with it…
Ginevra de’ Benci.
Sixteen years old.
The portrait.
Made around the time of her engagement, in honor of her upcoming marriage.
Notice the juniper—like a wreath in the background—that appears almost like a headdress.Apparently, da Vinci included (or ‘was told to include’) the juniper for two reasons—
Her virtuousness is expressed by the juniper wreath around her head.
A portrait bearing a built-in review, like a stamp of commissioned social approval.
The artist? Leonardo da Vinci.
Ginevra’s expression?
Speaks Volumes.
Is she wearing the virtuous look?
Or the art of exuding indifference?
Or is it actual regret escaping through?
Or is she simply wearing the "solemn is proper" mask?
…”As Catherine’s body showed the toll of years of childbearing, Dickens grew cold. He blamed her—bizarrely—for the size of their family. He told friends she was inadequate. He grew distant, critical, and then cruel. He had the connecting door between their bedrooms boarded shut, a physical wall to mirror what had already grown between them.
History Timelines
The moralist. The one who wrote about the sordid conditions of the Victorians. The poverty. The marginalized. The outcasts. The victims of injustice.
I never suspected that the Dickens described above was, in reality, the exact opposite.
Traponee, f. 60v: “Solinus says that among the progeny of Traponee grow the biggest snails that exist in the world, and they move so quickly that it is a marvel, and the men of the country hunt and chase them as we over here hunt wild animals. And the people of the region live on their flesh. And the shells are so big that the men and women of the country live inside them, and they have no other houses or habitations. – from Kristen Figg and John Friedman’s translated transcription of the manuscript.
Today I started working on a new book. I was putting it off—there was always something coming up- demanding my time, allowing me to procrastinate digging into this project.
And here I am. In my favorite armchair with my laptop. Working on my novel, mostly…with a few other tabs open.
My personal journal is open because I constantly jot and journal when something crosses my mind. This site is on another opened tab because, again, if I feel the yen to stash a word or image, I need to have this ‘available.’ (And here I am…)
And I have another tab open -responsible for the playlist that fills the air.
Speaking of filling the air…I can smell the brioche I just baked. It’s cooling on the rack in the kitchen.
Brioche. Some might say, “A fussy bread for demanding palates.”
Brioche, in my opinion, is the powdered wig of breads.
I’m not a big fan, but I made it anyway. A ‘done thing’ thing, I suppose. To have a ‘special’ bread. And I love to bake and cook—and so, the brioche.
I am more of a focaccia, baguette, and rustic artisanal round loaf person.
While the bread was baking, I rummaged through one of my handbags—hoping to clean it out a bit and lighten the load (ha!)—and I found an old lipstick in there—my favorite shade—used up, worn to the nub, and literally down to the metal. I always keep emergency lipstick, cigarettes, a lucky lighter, old receipts, business cards, change, hair things, and mini antiseptic spray as ‘just in case’ supplies in my already ‘full’ bag.
Don’t know why I kept it. I was looking at it, just staring at it in wonder.
Honestly, I didn’t really “know what I meant” with that thought.
“Painted smiles” came to mind.
Those words, painted smiles, sort of echoed in my mind—its deeper meaning yearning to be observed and understood.
That’s why I am here now…after emptying the bag, after taking the brioche out of the oven, and after trying to work on the next chapter of my latest fiction project. I have been thinking on and off about ‘painted smiles’ trying to decipher its meaning.
Yes, I know…it happens.
Some people would love to take meds for overthinking. Me? I just watch my carbs… Apparently to no avail… Anyway…
When I threw out the tube, I realized I threw out a tool for creating masks.
See, I actually did know what I meant when “painted smiles” came to mind.
I just happened to realize it at this moment. A bit delayed. And so here I am…stashing this thought…
The lipstick was a cylinder of painted performance.
The painted lips.
Vital for the perfect kabuki or geisha appearance. Dramatic. Extravagant. Artistic.
(And vital for clowns, but I won’t go there). (They freak me out.)
Yet I probably was aware of the role of lipstick and its ‘painting’ function—yet that tube was something I couldn’t be without either.
Why?…I don’t know.
Is it a subliminal thing?
Does lipstick provide the illusion that words spoken by painted lips don’t count as your own? Subliminally?
That sort of thing?
I, like many women, was hooked on it. Couldn’t leave home without it. Did it give me a sense of having my own ‘say’? I don’t know…
Meanwhile…
The brioche, in the kitchen, performed its display of sophistication and wealth—another performance.
Bread can display wealth when bearing the weight of a rich dose of butter and eggs.
Speaking of which, every time I think ‘brioche,’ I think Marie Antoinette. Seriously.
You know, with her famous line—”Let them eat cake.”
They say it wasn’t even cake — she was referring to something closer to brioche.
The story changes depending on who tells it.
(But it is the Winners, they say, who always write History…The question for me, regarding history, is who ever actually won and what did they ever win?)
Like so many others who probably don’t give a **** about knowing EXACTLY what some of these historic celebrities ever said, (Can you blame me? Nothing has changed—past or present – not the sharpest crayons in the box – some of them, eh? ) I think she probably never even muttered that line—although she could have.
It sounds like something she could have said.
My mind went back to the lipstick I threw in the garbage.
Expensive. Although I don’t bother with lipstick now, I did insist on wearing that expensive brand all the time for years. (I am not about to advertise the brand…but you know what I mean…I indulged in one of the brands that charge for the hype and image…)
At one time, I considered it a must. Felt naked without it. Wouldn’t go out with its smear—its painted touch.
No different from what a powdered wig was to the ladies of the court back then—just a necessary part of the costume, worn until one became indistinguishable from the next person.
Or until the costumed one became indistinguishable from their true self underneath the powdered, rustling, bustling, corseted, and layered finery. That is a scary thought.
And I made a brioche. Although I prefer rustic…the artisan loaf.
Did I give in to its ‘status’?
A rustic loaf doesn’t have the same ‘finesse’ as a brioche, I suppose, when served.
Finesse. Another ‘show’.
You know, the Earl of Sandwich was said to have ‘invented’ the sandwich. Is that why the sandwich ‘caught on’?
Did the leftovers slapped between two pieces of bread become de rigueur because an Earl made it a meme?
💡In the 1772 book A Tour to London; Or New Observations on England and its Inhabitants, the French travel writer Pierre-Jean Grosley entrenched the story, claiming, “This new dish grew highly in vogue during my residence in London: it was called by the name of the minister who invented it.” – History Extra
Let’s all do it, they all thought. Balance some food between two pieces of bread and eat it. The Earl started it. And we must follow. Because no one would have thought to do this—and if they did, it would have been seen as vulgar. You know, eating with your hands like a barbarian. And tearing a mouthful of meat situated between the bread, like an animal tearing its bites off its meat?
All of a sudden, they were accepting this nosh at the meat held in your hand as chic? The sixty-forks place settings for the sixty-course dinner crowd?
Can you imagine the aristocrats of the day trying to maneuver some tough and dry leftover pheasant or some stiff and fibrous mutton thickly sliced between two hard pieces of bread? Elegant. Very. Whatever.
Truth: If it hadn’t been presented as chic by the Earl of Sandwich, they would have considered such mannerisms as ‘barbarism,’ ‘savage,’ and even ‘asylum’ material.
The Earl of Sandwich? An influencer, par excellence. He didn’t need a sponsor—he cleverly found a way to meet his need—and it became a meme.
It was said that the Earl, while at the card table, asked his servant to create and serve him his meal at the card table. He requested that his meat be placed between two pieces of bread so he could hold his meal in one hand while holding his cards in the other, thus continuing to play while eating. He was a gambler who refused to leave his card table for any reason and ruin his streak. And this went viral.
There is nothing wrong with a sandwich. It actually makes sense. It’s the herd mentality to follow the ‘meme’ that is frightening at times. Any meme.
And most often ridiculous ones. Like wearing a birdcage in a powdered wig or hiding behind a painted look. Or some of the things we do today. Don’t get me started on that…Anyway…
We have seen buffoonery over the centuries.
Are we still at it?
This reminds me of the “solemn is proper” mask…and it also reminds me to stash another entry about asylums that came to mind…