Seagull Spaghetti with Peas - A traditional Calabrese dish provided by Nonna Spirelli.

Spaghetti con Seagull and Pisceli was handed down from her mother. Her own mother learned it from Nonna's grandmother, and she learned it from her own mother. Her mother learned it from her mother, and her mother stole it from the back pocket of some hairy-arsed Genovase fisherman while he was giving her a seeing to against the back fence in some ally. A right slut apparently.

The interesting thing about this dish is that unlike most recipes from this region which tend to focus on fish, meats and various peasant vegetarian staples, this utilises seagulls, a form of poultry absent from every other coastal cuisine. It remains the only seagull recipe ever recorded in history. Enjoy!

The following is enough for a family of 18.

Ingredients:

White flour
Egg 1
Water ½ cup
Olive Oil 24 litres
Carrots 1
Tomatoes 10Kg ripe
5 Kg tinned
2 Kg paste
Garlic 15 bulbs or 2Kg
Onions 2
Seagull 2
Procuitto 2 slices (thin)
Peas ½ cup
Black Olives 1 cup (dried)
Porcini mushrooms ½ cup
Red wine 10 litres
Rind of orange 1
Basil (fresh) 1 bunch
Rosemary 1 bunch
Bay leaf 2

Method:

To make this, you will need to begin by donning the same black mourning dress that you'd worn everyday since your great grandfather died in 1956.

The first step is to collect your good walking stick and gather a large wicker basket of firewood from the nearest forest. Best if you mumble complaints as you go. Ignore anyone milling around wells since they are mostly likely gossiping about you.

Make a fire in the mud brick oven that you’ve constructed by hand in the backyard the night before. Be sure to start the fire only on the morning of the previous night where there was a full moon.

Once you've said 28 rounds of the Rosary the fire should be right to begin. If you've used hardwood, you may need some extra Hail Marys.

Take the olive oil, dab your finger in it and make the sign of the cross. Pour a glass and drink it to keep your skin looking healthy. Finally pour a litre or three into a large stock pot. Look into the pot and add another litre.

Take a large sharp knife and threaten to cut the throat of your grandson's new girlfriend, the one that isn't Catholic and has short hair. Cut the carrot into small cubes, then slice the onions. Vow to the saints that you'll make that little tart cry like the onions are making you cry. Peel and cut the garlic, giving thanks to god. Sautee the carrots, unions and garlic till brown and take off heat.

Place colander between knees and shell peas while watching World Championship Wrestling. Pour yourself a glass of the red wine for your blood. Not that sh*t that Louey made last year and not fit to use as vinegar, some of the good stuff. Drain the olives, slice the prosciutto, and prepare the mushrooms.

Take the seagulls and the wine and move the front porch where you can keep on eye on that bitch from Number 27. Pluck seagulls thoroughly and singe with blow torch or gas stove to remove any remaining feathers. Keep neck and head attached. Gut the gulls and cut into pieces. Keep the feet.

Take flour, eggs, water, and salt to the good house next door and make the pasta. Be sure to give your ungrateful grandson a crashing backhander to the head on your way. Threaten with a rolling pin if there is one handy. Leave pasta to dry out the back.

Cut a loaf of Vienna bread in two, place a whole mozzarella and some salami inside and eat with half litre of wine for lunch.

Hang crucifix above stove. Return the pot with the sauteed vegetables to heat, place in gull pieces and cook until brown. Add 6 litres of red wine, all of the tomatoes, the olives, mushroom, prosciutto, rind and herbs. Place a fresh log on the fire, say a prayer to St. Anthony and add more garlic and tomatoes.

Simmer on low heat for nine hours. In the meantime you may, while half p*ssed, lecture the dog on how easy you children have it compared to what it was like in village during the war. Gloss over the part about the lost infantryman and the barn.

Get the spaghetti from the good house next door. Curse the ungrateful greedy widow three doors down that refuses to sell her house to you. Cook and drain the pasta, and add to the pot. Stir through while secretly pretending to be a witch. Make a note for your next confessional.

Take the pot to the table. Make sure the table is in the garage, next to the industrial deep freezer and the plastic wine tank. If not, under a carport will do.

Serve in portions of no less than 5KG each.

Garnish the plates of the guests of honour by sticking in two legs, as if the gulls had buried themselves in the steaming pasta.

Say grace and eat.

Best served after a large horsemeat steak.

If anyone fails to finish their second plate ask why they don't like it. After that ask why it isn't good enough for then. Following this, ask if they'd like an omelette. Regardless of what they say, get up and make them that omelette. You should be muttering under your breath various exclaimations as to how it couldn't be good enough. Finally start banging on about how much you've suffered over the years.