My coworker and I were talking about noodles, and she told me that she saw a special on Barilla pasta, in which they went to the factory in Italy to see it get made.
I imagined a hollow warehouse, with low hanging lights, with those dog-cone style lightshades, swinging in the hot breeze coming from the massive ingredient mixers, full of hundreds of modified sewing machines, with elderly Italian women hunched over each one, their feet constantly pedaling to keep the pasta flowing through, spinning spaghetti and singing old Italian pasta making songs, while a Foreman approached each one, and in a voice that carried both concern and condemnation, inspired them to continue with, “Spaghet like the wind!”
I nearly peed myself.
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