The New York Times pasta recipe angers Italians

The cooking section of the New York Times website recently published a recipe called “Smoked Tomato Baked Pasta”, which unexpectedly angered some Italians. According to the British “Guardian” report on the 25th, the newly released recipe modified the recipe of the classic Roman dish of grilled pasta, replacing the original ingredients with bacon and parmesan cheese, and adding tomatoes.

According to the report, the recipe aroused dissatisfaction among pasta lovers as soon as the recipe was released. Someone commented on social media: “This has nothing to do with grilled pasta. Don’t go crazy!” Afterwards, netizens also discussed hotly. To attract the attention of top Italian chefs, the Roman chef Dale Sandro Pipero, known as the “King of Baked Pasta”, said: “This approach is tantamount to putting air-dried sausages into cappuccino. Or put the sausage in the sushi. Can this kind of sushi be called sushi? Similarly, grilled pasta with tomatoes is not grilled pasta.”

According to the Guardian, this is not the first time that Italians have become dissatisfied with foreign Italian recipes. They have also been angry about adding pineapple to pizza or adding chicken to pasta.

sun shone fiery by the edges of flaccid, müdgeregneten clouds sailed as the small family of Pierre’s funeral home. Frau Adele sat upright in the car, her weeping face looked strangely bright and rigid from the black hat and the high-necked black mourning dress. Albert had swollen eyelids and kept holding his mother’s hand in his.

“So you’re both going to-morrow,” said Veraguth encouragingly. “Don’t worry, I’ll do whatever is necessary here. Courage, my boy, better times will come again! ”

They got off at Roßhalde. The dripping branches of the chestnuts sparkled burning in the light. Blinded, they went into the quiet house, where the girls waited in mourning gowns, whispering. The father had locked Pierre’s room.

Coffee was ready and the three of them sat around the table.

“I have ordered rooms for you in Montreux,” Veraguth began again. “See that you have a good rest! I too want to travel as soon as I’m done here. Robert will stay here and keep the house in order. He will have my address. ”

Nobody listened to him, a deep, shameful sobriety weighed on everyone like a frost. Frau Adele stared down before her and read crumbs from the tablecloth. She locked herself in her grief and did not want anything to wake her up from it, and Albert imitated her. Since little Pierre was dead, the appearance of togetherness in the family had faded again, like the politeness on the face of someone who was struggling to rule when a dreaded powerful guest has left. It was only Veraguth who continued to play his part until the last moment and held on to the mask. He feared that some female scene might spoil his farewell from Roßhalde, and in his heart he waited longingly for the hour when the two would have left.

He had never been so alone as he was on the evening of that day when he was sitting in his little room. Over there, his wife was packing her bags. He had written letters and done business; he had registered with Burkhardt, who was not yet aware of Pierre’s death, had given the lawyer and the bank the final instructions and powers of attorney. Now the desk was cleared and he had placed the picture of the dead Pierre in front of him. It was now in the ground, and the question was whether Veraguth would ever again be able to give his heart away to someone like this, or whether he would be able to suffer another’s suffering in this way. He was alone now.

For a long time he looked at his drawing, the slack cheeks, the lids closed over sunken eyes, the narrow, clenched mouth, the cruelly thin children’s hands. Then he locked the picture in the studio, put on his coat and went outside. The park was already at night and everything was quiet. Over in the house there were a couple of lighted windows that were none of his business. But under the black chestnut trees, in the little rainy arbor, Something like life and memory still wafted on the gravel square and in the flower garden. Pierre once had him here – wasn’t it years ago? – showed a small captured mouse, and there by the phlox he had spoken to the flocks of blue butterflies, and he had invented fantastically tender names for the flowers. Here everywhere, in the courtyard by the poultry and dog house, on the lawn and in the avenue of lime trees, he had led his little life, played his games, his easy, free boy’s laugh and all the charm of his idiosyncratic independent person was at home here. Here he had enjoyed his childhood joys a hundred times, not noticed by anyone, and experienced his fairy tales; here he had perhaps been angry or cried at times when he felt neglected or misunderstood.

Veraguth wandered about in the darkness, visiting every place that kept a memory of his boy. At last he knelt down at Pierre’s Sandberg and cooled his hands in the damp sand, and when he was about to grasp a wooden thing got and picked up and recognized Pierre’s little sand shovel, he sank down without will and was finally able, for the first time in these three terrible days, to cry freely and without shackles.

That morning he had another interview with Frau Adele.

“Comfort yourself,” he said to her, “and don’t forget that Pierre was mine. You had given it to me – thank you again for it. I already knew then that he was going to die – but it was nice of you. And now live as you please and do not rush anything! Keep Rosshalde for the time being, you might regret it if you gave it away too soon. The notary will teach you about this, he thinks that the land value will soon have to rise here. Good luck with that! Nothing belongs to me here more than the things in the studio, I’ll have them picked up later. ”

“Thanks and you? You never want to come here again? ”

“No more. It would be of no use. And I wanted to tell you: there is no bitterness at all with me more available. I know I was guilty of everything myself. ”

“Don’t say that! You mean well, but it just torments me. You are left all alone now! Yes, if you could have kept Pierre. But like this – no, it shouldn’t have happened like that! I was also to blame, I know … ”

“We have paid for that, child, these days. You have to be calm, everything is fine, there really is nothing more to complain about. See, now you have Albert all to yourself. And I, I have my job. Everything can be endured with it. You too will be happier than you have been in years. ”

He was so calm that she too overcame herself. Oh, there was a lot, an infinite amount, that she would have liked to say, for which she would have thanked him, for which she would have liked to accuse him. But she saw he was right. For him, all of this had evidently become an insubstantial past, which she still felt as life and bitter present. It was now time to be quiet and let the old be gone. And so she listened with patient attention what he had to arrange, and wondered how well he had thought over everything and thought of everything.

Not a word was said about the divorce. That could happen anytime later, when he was back from India.

After noon they drove to the train station. Robert stood there with the many suitcases, and in the noise and soot of the large glass hall, Veraguth took the two of them into their car, bought Albert magazines and gave him the baggage ticket, waited in front of the window until departure, took off his hat in greeting and saw the train until Albert disappeared from the window.

On the way home, he asked Robert to tell him the dissolution of his hasty engagement. At home he found the carpenter waiting to make the boxes for his last pictures. When these were packed and sent away, he wanted to go too. He longed to leave.

And now the carpenter was cleared too. Robert worked in the manor house with the one maid who was still there; they covered the furniture and closed the windows and shutters.

Veraguth walked slowly through his workshop, through the living room and bedroom, then outside, around the pond and through the park. He had walked around here a hundred times, but today everything, house and garden, lake and park, seemed to echo with loneliness. The wind blew coldly in the already yellowing arbor and brought new woolly rain clouds in low-hanging trains. The painter shivered. Now there was no one left to care for, to be considerate of, to be guarded against, and only now did he feel the worries and night vigils, the trembling fever and all the shattering fatigue of these last ones in freezing loneliness Time. He not only felt it in his head and limbs, he felt it even more deeply in his mind. Then the last playing lights of youth and expectation were extinguished; but he did not feel the cool isolation and cruel sobriety as a horror.

Undeterred, he sought, strolling on through the wet paths, to retrace the threads of his life, whose simple fabric he had never seen so clearly and with satisfaction. And he found without bitterness that he had walked all these ways in blindness. He saw that, in spite of all attempts and in spite of all longing that had never been completely extinguished, he had passed the garden of life. He had never in his life experienced and tasted love to the last reason, never until these last days. Then he had experienced his only true love, all too late, at the bed of his dying boy, that was the first time he had forgotten himself, overcame himself. That would be his experience and his poor little treasure forever.

What was left to him was his art, of which he had never felt as safe as it was now. He was left with the consolation of those standing outside, to whom it was not given to usurp life themselves and drink it up; he was left with the strange, cool, yet irrepressible passion of seeing, observing and secretly proud co-creation. That was the rest and the value of his unsuccessful life, this unswerving loneliness and cold pleasure in performing, and to follow this star without going astray was now his fate.

He breathed deeply in the damp, bitter-scented park air, and with every step he thought he was pushing the past away like a useless boat from the bank. In his examination and knowledge there was nothing of resignation; full of defiance and enterprising passion, he looked forward to the new life, which was no longer allowed to be groping and dawning madness, but a steep, daring path uphill. Later and perhaps more bitterly than men usually do, he had said goodbye to the sweet twilight of youth. Now he was poor and belated in the broad daylight, and of which he did not intend to lose another precious hour.