Daily Archives: April 20, 2014

Chicken Transfiguration At Charing Cross Station: An Edible Quasi-Mystical Experience.

Mundabor's Mystical Chicken Experience.

Mundabor’s Mystical Chicken Experience.

 

 

In Italy we say: si dice il peccato, ma non il peccatore (“one says the sin, but not the sinner”).

In this case, the sin is, in essentials,  not one of lack of orthodoxy, or betrayal of Catholicism – something the blogger in question has often done, and will do more in future; and which would prompt me to be rather open about it – but of mere, or you might say human, vanity.

Therefore, I allow myself to, ahem, rework a recently appeared blog post of this particular blogger without shaming the person as such.

Those who were to find the original post are kindly asked to do the same. 

For the moment, allow this to be my “Happy Easter” to you.

And please, in your charity, consider saying a prayer for the blogger, even if you don’t know who he or she is. 

M

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Chicken Transfiguration At Charing Cross Station: An Edible Quasi-Mystical Experience.

 

I had an epiphany some days ago. I need to tell you this so that you may understand what an awfully fine chap I am. I know too many of you think I am just an obese glutton shamelessly riding his family name, but this is not the case. I assure you: I truly am as good as I think I am. 

And so it happened this way. I wanted to meet some new Catholic friends, but when they showed up it turned out they were Hindus and Muslims. I should have understood it on the spot, but I admit I took a while to understand why some sported those turbans, and those long beards. One never ceases to learn.

I never talk about Catholic issues when I am with non-Catholics, because I love inclusiveness as much as I love piling on the pasta; so I had to re-adjust my little conversation with them. No Catholicism, please. God-is-luv fluff. You know the stuff.

Yes, I was good. You know I always am, because I always hint at it. Anyway. Where was I? Yes. I was good, I was saying (where was I?… oh… erm… well) but I left the company feeling somewhat dissatisfied. Being so good, I always want to do better, you know. That’s how you create excellence. 

I was, then, wondering: was I banal enough? Were my platitudes sufficiently inclusive? Did I avoid Catholic issues with enough zeal, or did perhaps something slip in my words that hurt my audience, and let them feel not welcome?

I was reflecting about all this with half my brains, whilst the other half was doing what it always does: think about food.

Therefore I steered, as if remote-controlled, the next eatery. There, with a pint of Guinness in my hand (I never tell my readers about the twelve donuts; it does not read well, you see; but then again it’s unhealthy to drink alcohol without some little tapas…) , I just stopped and looked at people. 

I love looking at people, you must know. I think: what will that chap over there eat for dinner tonight? And the woman coming out of Platform Seven, isn’t she even fatter than I am? What about that boy: will he prefer ketchup or mayonnaise with his fries? And speaking of mayo: what will I eat for dinner? Since my last nightmare, which included celery and carrots, I must eat at least a pound of beef every day, you know. Carrots are not good with a pint of Guinness, anyway. Most crucially: will another half dozen donuts help bridging the time?

Now, my affectionate readers know that besides being the most obscenely blind of Pollyannas, and sabotaging Catholic teaching whenever it lets me looks inclusive, good and charitable, I am always mindful of letting my readers know, in subtle and oblique ways, about my own astonishing goodness. This is because everyone knows I am a first-class glutton, so I must balance that out; and as I have noticed that people never tell me of me how saintly or at least very special I am, I will have to do it myself. 

And so I had an epiphany. Whilst I was there, holding the pint in my hand I told you about  – and diving into the donuts I did not tell you about – something happened. Cynical bastards like that blogger chap with the Pius XII photo would think it was an excess of sugar in my blood, or a moment of confusion caused by the blood going away from my brain and flooding where it was, at that moment, most urgently needed: my stomach. But hey, whatever the cause, the fact is that for one moment the world stopped.

Now, please follow me closely here. I am not as stupid as to tell you I had a mystical experience, or such like. Everyone knows people don’t have mystical experiences and write about them in blogs. I know my readership isn’t made of eagles (we do extreme Pollyann-ing in my blog; so yes, quite), but they aren’t sooo dumb, either. I don’t like eagles, by the way. I prefer hens. Or chicken. KFC ones, for example. 

Sorry, it’s that when I talk of food… where was I again? 

Oh. Yes. I mean: no.

No. I had something. Something, you see, profound (because I am profound; and I’ll let you acknowledge it, if I have to bang on it until I have digested a whale), and very very special; but something that I – as in every mystical mini-experience worthy of the name; though I can’t call it that way, see… – cannot really define.

But I will try. For you. And because I am so good.

It was as if the world had stopped, and Colonel Sanders had been looking at me.

He was there. Huge. Smiling at me like it’s going out of fashion. Full of reassuringly white hair.

He was not in flesh and blood, though. He was printed on the side of a gigantic bucket full of delightful, “finger lickin’ good” chicken pieces.  Two huge chicken (or hens) were standing besides him.

It was like Chicken Transfiguration, or Nugget Nirvana. I’ll never forget that.

He was saying to me: ” “O000h, Mundaaabor! How oooften I have wanted to gather your readers together, and tell them of the deliiiiicious taste of my chicken wings! But you wouldn’t let meeeee!”

It was the shortest of moments. A flash in the pan, as I say. A mere glimpse. Less, I think, than I need to gobble down a creme-filled donut. And believe me, I am good at that.

It was beautiful. Profound. It was so beautifully cooked, tender, succulent; the breadcrumbs just crispy enough, but not too much. A potentially life-changing experience.

Stop here please, and admire me. What is this all about, if not me? 

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Since then, nothing has been all right.

I cannot go on as I used to. That face, that particularly delicious, huge bucket, and the two Giant Hens simply persecute me.

It was, as I have already said, redolent of the Transfiguration, though it was even more vividly redolent of fried chicken. But in my case it was rather different. It was as if the Two Great Hens In The Sky had appeared and had said to me “We are the archetype of all KFC mega buckets. Come to us, oh you who hunger, and we will give you the barbecue sauce, too”.

All it’s different now. So please notice, I am halfway talking this down, but you must know by now this is life-changing.

Serious stuff. Spiritual. Profound.

I am, as I have already told you, so very sensitive. Therefore, I do not know what this experience will make of me.Will I leave chocolate donuts and give my full allegiance to cinnamon? Is cream orthodox enough? Should I become a donuts traditionalist?

Already I feel that I cannot blog about political issues anymore; not because it’s becoming uncomfortable to say things even remotely contrary to what the angry mob of liberals and sodomites thinks, and I need to retreat into the ethereal and extremely controversy-free regions of pure do-goodism and pious reflections about myself. 

No. Not because of that.

No. I mean, really! Oh come on, how often do I have to tell you?

No! No! No!

It’s because I had this “Big Hens” Chicken Transfiguration vision, you know!

Now, nothing will be the same. Perhaps. I mean. You are getting how sensitive I am, right? OK then…

What will become of this blog?

I do not know.

But when I have eaten too much I do strange things, so you never know.

Please pray for me.

And pass the mayo.

Mundabor

 

 

 

Resurrexit, Sicut Dixit

Andrea Mantegna, "Resurrection"

Andrea Mantegna, “Resurrection”

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