I recall hearing Donald Kagan say in a radio interview that a Roman statesman would consider the American constitution absurd and unworkable. Much is often made about the differences between ancient Romans and modern Americans. The livers were called by them, iucur ficatum, (figgy liver) a much more pleasing name than that chosen by the French. And we learn such fun trivia, via Pliny the Elder that foie gras (fat liver) was invented not by the French but by Italians, who force-fed figs to their geese. Grapes were not merely harvested, they had to be crushed and turned into wine and vinegar. Seneca, Cato, Apicius, Petronius, and Juvenal are all mined for gastronomic as well as agricultural insight: Olives were not merely grown, they had to be cured. But Martial is not alone in bearing witness to the diet and lifestyle of the Romans. Here we learn that people of Rome were not just awake but out in the streets about their business at dawn the bakers having risen even earlier to prepare their goods for their customers’ morning meals. “Rise: Already the baker is selling breakfasts to the childrenĪnd the roosters crow everywhere with the first light of day.” With plenty of quotes from the period, the book does more than just reveal to modern readers and eaters the culinary practices of the ancient Romans, it shows modern people how the ancient Romans lived. Rather, the food she describes is that Romans ate day in and day out, with maybe a couple of fancy meals on special occasions such as recipes from “business” occasions, when a patron would feed his clients, but those were not usually anything like Caligula’s orgies. The food she describes is not the boiled grain of a soldier on campaign, nor is it the nearly unbelievable cuisine of the orgy (More candied flamingo tongue, anyone?). Giacosa, a food-loving archaeologist from Switzerland, delights the reader with a zesty report from 1st century Roman kitchen. Ilaria Giacosa (Translator: Anna Herklotz), A Taste of Ancient Rome (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 231 pages + illustrations, bibliography, and index.
(Angry housemates.) It makes me wonder what else I have forgotten. But it was, at the time, kind of a big deal. Not until Devon reminded me had I given it any thought. I had not remembered this event for years. It was shocking and untidy but after that I did get to enjoy the figs from the tree. But the opossum was torn in twain by the projectile from my rifle. When I hunted wild pigs with a 12 gauge shotgun the pig didn't go to pieces when hit by the buck shot. 22 LR there was always a squirrel or rabbit body to recover. When I hunted squirrels and rabbits with a. You know the saying about the broad side of a barn? That applies to all cases of me shooting a pistol. 380 calibre Spansih Foreign Legion pistol, but I am a very bad shot with a handgun. I knew the ammunition it fired, the 7.62 X 39mm Warsaw Pact cartridge was a little more power than I needed to kill an oppossum. I had only owned that particular rifle for a few weeks and had not fired it before. It wasn't long before the varmint made his appearance. One morning I went outside with my SKS (I sold it to a guy in Texas when California outlwed my particular configuration.) before dawn and waited. My boys, Billy and Devon said they weren't eating the figs so I knew it must be an animal. I'll pick it tomorrow." But when I would go back the next morning it would be gone. I would say to my self, "oooo that one is almost ripe. On Independence Day we would climb the hill behind the house and watch fireworks all over Silicon Valley.Įvery morning I would walk out to the back yard and check on the figs. And behind the back yard was open space: Hills coverd in grasses, scrub oaks, and bays. I didn't care much for the house or the City of Cupertino (They wouldn't let me replace the lawn with a vegetable garden nor build a shooting range in the back yard) about the only things about the house I liked were the apricot tree in front yard and the fig tree in the backyard. I was living with 3 other men (it was shortly after I divorced my 1st wife) in a big ranch house in Cupertino. But he was little then, maybe 4 or 5 years old and it stands out in his memory. The other day my oldest son, Devon reminded me of the time I shot an oppossum.