My fantasy place to live is the Mediterranean, for the azure ocean, and the Greek boats with the eyes painted on their prows, for all those soccer players with hair like shepherds, sure. But really for the cheese.
Years ago I was south of Rome, under a beach umbrella and my picnic was bread...and a globe of fresh buffalo milk mozzarella glowing softly, white as Aphrodite's ass. It was sweet, savory, diary. The cream dripped down your forearms. Calling it a sandwich was like calling Italian, the language of the heart-breaking arias of Puccini, sing-song-y. It was the stuff of opera.
If I could have married a Water Buffalo right then like Europa or become a cow like Io I would have done so. But I remained myself and in the morning flew back to Boston. But now when I get my suburban mother American chunk of grocery mozzarella wan and tight in its plastic wrap, I talk to it. I know what you're capable of, I say to it. I know how much more you can be.