I like to make inflammatory remarks on the Internet. I’ve said some truly and exceptionally stupid and abrasive things online because I’m a glutton for punishment and other equally selfish and needy reasons.
But never have I captured such a strong reaction as when I said this:
In 2016 I learned that people fucking love some ravioli. Like a lot. It wasn’t totally fair that the first comment came from a handsome gentlemen actually from Italy with a glib response:
In these comments he’s also informing me that the grocery store that’s behind my very apartment has some delicious ravioli. And then how to cook.
And then I learned that ravioli comes in all kinds of intriguing and diverse flavors and styles, and suddenly ravioli bonds were being forged on my FaceBook timeline:
And not only were friends tethered together through a mutual acquaintance and appreciation for pillow-y food treats, it generated confusion:
BUT I HAVE A RESPONSE FOR THAT CONFUSION. (I also paraphrased the postmodern bit from an episode of a radio show that I like).
And then it started to manifest in delicious suggestions by beloved friends:
Totally accurate: I am spoiled. I probably do want it fresh. And I’ll take anything with vodka.
And then I got called out:
And somehow bringing up Dunkaroos brought up an entirely different, though I’d venture, equally important conversation about yummy snacks and the halcyon days of the WWF.
Starting to accidentally insult people:
And I begin to question who I am since most of my favorite food is courtesy of this chef:
So I needed to chime in on my own behalf and my own gamine naivety that I think is basically film worthy.
It’s true. I eat candy and grilled cheeses almost every day and sometimes in multiples per day.
And much like Kim Kardashian’s ass before me, my self-reflection destroyed the Internet:
Many additional voices jumped in with feelings on ravioli, no one was on my side. Not a soul. And then in a shocking twist of irony, the very lunchroom – site of twice a day grilled cheeses – decided to put this out for lunch.
It’s fucking fried ravioli (like THAT’s gonna trick me). This lunchroom has never ever ever had this out before.
I then brought my parents into the debate. To the best of my knowledge they’re Italian food loving asses would be the best judge on pasta.
This is my father’s response:
To give you some context of this email: my father is a great man who I love dearly. However, he is also the person that in response to the news that I got him Yankees tickets and that I love that he’s my dad responded, “wow!” I think I can count the things he’s said he’s loved on one hand. Evidently not only does ravioli makes the list – it makes the list in all caps.
My mom acted just like you’d expect my mom to:
I love that she conceded that *some* restaurants are capable of making homemade ravioli
I decided to go to South Philly to get ravioli because, I don’t know. It seemed like the place to go (somewhere in the Italian market). I won’t share the name of the place because I don’t want anyone to think that destination influenced decisions. Despite the whole going to South Philly thing…whatever. They were homemade. Or handmade? Like not frozen is what I’m getting at.
I tried to get the person I was there with to take a photo of the blessed event but he was crazy stoned and started getting insanely paranoid about using a smart phone in public because he doesn’t own one or know how to use them. So this was the result. I’d like everyone to know that I showered for this occasion and you can’t even tell. Fuck a job.
Dude…I’m not getting it. I know that I’ve missed out on some seriously important things in life that I eventually came around to, but are my taste buds corrupted from too many years of persistent candy eating? I mean, they’re just pockets of dough filled with crumbly ricotta – which no one likes. They’re not repugnant like relish or pancakes, but they weren’t delicious like welsh rarebit or Diet Cokes. Maybe if they were filled with welsh rarebit or diet soda I’d be, like, “oh heyyyyyyy sorta adorable looking pasta thing!”
Do I need a do-over? Or not restaurant ravioli? Bigger question – do I need many people to make me many different kinds of ravioli?
In the end I treated myself to a cannoli. I gave myself a boxing name (Janie ‘the cannoli’ Cannarella), and then just ate all of the cream and whipped cream.