Pringa value

The surviving pigs breathed a sigh of relief as St. Martin’s Feast ended. Like Borges’ immortals, they will continue to enjoy munching on acorns under oak trees and frolicking in puddles…for now. Another Saint Martin came with a scythe, … Pig big bang time. The final explosion will spread the meat in places such as the Ham Museum, various sausage rolls, Casa Pepe sirloin with whiskey, sausages in supermarkets, trade fairs and Montai de Pringa raffles. And here in Pringa, although we are talking about pigs, we find the mother of the lamb. That Pringa is our gastronomic treasure. A triumvirate of chicken, beef, and pork, flanked by a trio of Neptune’s trident and Lalala. But the noble Pringa has suffered for so long from an intolerable lack of consideration that it has fallen into a doldrums. You yourself may have said something like: “They signed that football player instead of the loser.” Alluded to the fact that no matter how bad or old the soccer player in question was, he paid no price for it. That such an outstanding representative of our culinary tradition was devalued in the foreign exchange market of the Seville speech, and it became synonymous with or a transcription of an ornament, a baubles or nothing, is a disgrace, a shame, and a problem that must be remedied as soon as possible. Remember your sleeping souls. Humans have been able to invent thousands of things throughout history, but there have only been three or four truly great things that change the course of events, mark milestones, and delimit time: the wheel, the steam engine, the microchip, and…pringa. I agree that not all pringas are at that height. I myself should have reported once the remains of an unidentified bird bone, a combination of clenbuterol-infused pitraco and unshaved bacon, and that was no nonsense. It was a crude replacement. Pringa, prepared according to the norms established by secular tradition, constitutes a monument of gastronomy, a hymn to a ruminative song. Walling it up involves a sensual and quasi-mystical experience. It is the joy of touching without touching the sin of gluttony, like being bitten by a Cernudian angel. So what is the point of this contempt?

The reason for Pringa’s eerie decline in reputation may lie in the labyrinth of our deep-seated inferiority complexes. Whether it’s Fouett, Butifara or Caruso, there are proud and confident people who have turned the pooping man figurine into a sign of their identity. In culture. It is a symbol that proudly displays Urbi et Orbe and inspires admiration. Ah, those Charons. On the other hand, we are overwhelmed by old tribulations and despise everything at home. If anything, the only thing we usually get off our chests is the fluff that builds up in that navel we’re forever circling around, keeping our eyes fixed there so we can’t see beyond that. We really aren’t worth a penny.

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