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DESTINATION OCCIDENTAL - IL PASTO

Entering the dining room,
remember the “Italian Hotel,”
Greeted by cacophony of animated diners.
The space is large, well-lit, rustic.
Tables range in size,
some for two, some for twenty.
Red and white checkered tablecloths,
Ovviamente,
Twisted, green bottles of chianti in baskets, as tall as me,
are staged around the room.
With scenes of madre italia,
And portraits of antichi antenati
hung on the walls
An inviting, comforting place.

The bread is served first.
Straights from heaven’s ovens.
But that’s an assumption.
Crunchy, light brown crust,
warm fluffy white center.
Served with real butter.
I mean the kind you can actually spread.
Not the hard stuff from the fridge at home.
Then comes the antipasto.
Though a tasty, tempting treat,
Brakes must be applied…
A full tummy leaves no room for…
ALLELUIA!! The ravioli con marinara!
Delicious meat-filled homemade pasta pillows
Cooked by nonne siciliane and daily flown in fresh.
But that’s an assumption.
Written by Gahddess_Worship (Osomajestuoso)
Published
Author's Note
NaPo/GloPoWriMo poem #18. Part 2 of my memory of our childhood trek, usually around Thanksgiving, to meet with my grandparents in Occidental, California and some of the best Italian food I've ever tasted. The hotel that housed the restaurant is actually the "Union Hotel."
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