Carbo-Overload 4/17/10

This afternoon, we were at my favorite pre-marathon gluttonization station, Cinzetti's, for one last calorie-fest before the marathon.

There are about six bread stations, fifteen pasta dishes, eight pizzas, crepes (are those Italian?), and two kinds of potato pie. I took at least a tongful, or a spoonful, from every one. As I heffalumped my way back to our table, I thought I saw some fresh fruit, too, but I figured it would only take up space in my stomach-dumpster that I would later need for desert.

Mama mia, the desert: Tiramisu, The Chocolate Cookie of Death, Raspberry Crostata (Dean Martin's birth name.), bread pudding, and thirteen variations on pistachio ice cream. I took all of those, too. My arms were so laden with plates full of treats that I almost- ALMOST- passed on the cannoli.

For me, it is the signature Italian meal-topper. Probably because I have seen The Godfather so many times, and the lines, "Leave the gun. Take the cannoli," spill from my slobbering lips whenever cannoli comes up. I can't pass it by. Clemenza tells me to take it- I take it. I don't want to end up like Paulie: Slumped against the steering wheel with a hole the size of Sicily in my head.

I ate enough food to provide fuel for four marathons. So what if I had to be wheeled out of Cinzetti's on a forklift? I will not be one of those poor buffoni staggering through the final miles. I will finish strong, my engine humming away on a full tank of pasta, marinara sauce, pepperoni, and ricotta cheese. "Molto Grazie!" I will shout when I joyfully cross the finish line. "Viva Italia!"

Thanks for reading.