Rabocce was shaped, pressed, formed, sculpted in the kitchens of Florence. Just one little noodle in a transnational linguini. You might ask: was this noodle creamy? Was this noodle framed and mounted amongst the de Medici’s finest, Botticelli looking enviously upon its curvy nood silhouette?
There is no simple answer to these complex, global phenomena. But if we think with gender, if we think with and through the paradigms of international localities, one truth emerges:
This noodle loves a beat. This noodle bobs, this noodle thrives—whether it is but one Rabocce in a fettuccini, but one Rabocce in the layers of a freshly pressed Panini—this noodle carries in every thread of its elasticity the existential throb. The pulse. And not a one of us can change that. Not a one of us can even try.
Myth and mysticism surround the life of a noodle. Apothecary, and hierarchy. Dream and faux-reality. Mystery and Thrill. This we believe. And it therefore becomes apparent that we know only one thing most certainly: if one is privileged enough to bear witness to Rabocce in her element (likely entwined in her kin—the elbow or the angel hair), one comes face to face with what it means to be in sync with this earth and the polyrhythmic pounding of nature’s dear heart. Drum on, Rabocce, the elders say. And we agree.