Full as an egg

My flatmate, Sally, was back. The door to the flat slammed shut behind her and she dropped her suitcase in the corridor while fumbling for the key to her bedroom. She was as graceful as an elephant. 

I prepared myself for the imminent onslaught of words that would pour down the moment I asked, “how was Umbria?”

Two hours later she paused to breath. “Let’s go down and get some pizza,” I suggested. 

A ‘Pizza al Taglio’ (pizza by the slice) takeaway had recently opened at the foot of the building. We were eating our way through the various types of pizza. 

Early evening, and the small takeaway was packed. We jostled our way to the head of the mass of people gathered around the display case.  What was today’s selection?

The ubiquitous Pizza Margherita (basil, tomato sauce and mozzarella) nestled close to its pal, the Pizza Bianca. This last was a favourite of harried mothers who, not having had time to prepare a snack for their offspring, would rush in grab a small slice. Other combinations beckoned us: rocket and cherry tomatoes, sausages and broccoli, prawns and ice-berg lettuce, fried zucchini and cheese, pecorino and pepper (cacio pepe), tuna and onions, a never-ending colourful display. It was a feast for the eyes.

To the left of the selection of pizzas was a large tray with suppli (fried rice balls), olive ascolane (meat stuffed and fried in batter olives), baccala (fried cod) and that international favourite, chips. We pointed at what we wanted, debated the size of the slices and headed back to our flat with two large boxes.

The ancient lift creaked and groaned its way up to our floor and our boxes emitted a mouth- watering scent. Once inside we ravenously threw ourselves on our slices. Sally continued her tale of Umbria. I topped up our glasses with a Frascati white wine – I know Romans say only beer should be drunk with pizza but personally I find that a little heavy.

Sally grabbed another slice and talked on. She picked an olive ascolana. Then paused. I looked up, paying attention again. She put down the slice and announced “sono piena come un uovo.” She rubbed her stomach to underline her words. I raised an eyebrow. I was beginning to feel stuffed. 

“I’m full as an egg,” she translated. I nodded. It made sense, after all what could be fuller than an egg with its albumen and yolk? 

So it was Sally who introduced me to the expression. Barely a week later the young man who had told her the expression was sitting opposite me at a table in our local restaurant. She had met him while sketching a street in a quaint Umbrian hillside town. As he polished off his fourth panna cotta in a row, a feat that was making me sweat in sympathy, he pronounced, well-satisfied, “sono pieno come un uovo.”

It has over the years been a useful expression. However, I would like to sound a note of caution when using it, especially for  women. If you say : “sono piena,” your audience may think you are pregnant. 

Though as faux-pas go, it’s not as bad as a friend  who in the early stages of learning Italian, to a table full of Italians, announced, as she sucked on a juicy fig, “Mi piace tanto la figa.”  She thought she had said that she liked figs. The horrified and amused looks of the assembled indicated otherwise. A fig in Italian is masculine and is figo.  As for the other word, I’ll let you look it up.