I am suffering from an apparent truffle overdose.
I was invited on a few recent occasions to dine at friends’ houses who needed to consume these potholed, grotesque looking creatures before they self destructed. They must be eaten immediately or they die an ugly death.
Hopelessly afflicted by truffle fever, I reciprocated by buying a tartufo bianco from San Miniato and a tartufo nero pregiato from Norcia at San Lorenzo. The precious diamonds were meticulously jarred, wrapped twice and then boxed. Would I make it home without being accosted? Flinging my scarf around my face like an outlaw, I hid the prized package under my coat and escaped undercover in case someone having observed the transaction would follow me home. (It didn’t occur to me until later that this could be a new strategy to meet my ultimate Italian amore.)
After preparing my precious find with some friends in 3 different ways, I decidedly inhaled my last gluttonous truffle tasting for the year. It is now coming out of my ears, it is in my sweat, and somehow I cannot get the smell out of my apartment. After preparing that pleasingly pungent microscopic morsel of white truffle that almost broke the bank, my whole house reeks of truffles. The exquisite aroma initially provoked an orgasmic olfactory experience on the first night, but even two days after its consumation, I nearly keeled over from the scent as I entered my apartment this evening. I opened all the windows, turned off the heat and prayed that the smell would vanish in time to prevent me from seeking revenge with a can of marsiglia-scented air freshener.