The one who pays attention to accents is like someone who only eats spaghetti Bolognese.
It's like someone who has never proved, by sheer ignorance or mere hesitation, a carbonara.
Or a putanesca.
Sauces must be the same as whores: always at the customer's taste.
Sauces must be like those who eat them: reflecting their level of civility. Or cosmopolitanism. Or not.
No, not that the Bolognese does not express any nobility. On the contrary. After all, such would be a blasfemy with the dear friends from Bologna.
But what pisses me off are those who just want to eat pasta with sauce of ground meat (although the 'vero bolognese' is made of beef finely chopped, cooked for hours over low heat).
It is the lack of window, the unwillingness to perceive that smell that sounds on the other side, the color of cooked tomatoes for hours, the perfume of the panceta, the basil that gives color to the smell of the cooked, the fresh rosemary that transforms, the oil that lights up.
It is the lack of it all that makes me think and reflect on the lack of vision on the negligence of accommodating the other in the heart, the pre-trial of ideas, cultures, ways of being, anyway, the accents.
I speak as I like. And as the whole world. And I sail the accents as if they did not exist, even though I am aware of their presence, of their carriage, of their origin. But not everything that originates is worthy to exist.
So are the accents, as well as pasta sauces. In fact, I really sauce a pasta. God bless! Cheers!