Gentlemen of Europe, you have no grandmother.

We read in the ARA that "the European Union increasingly fears the threat of Russian expansionism and the effects of climate change" and, therefore, "asks all Europeans to have reserves of water, medicine, batteries, and food to survive for at least 72 hours without external aid in the event of a war or catastrophic conflict."

Perhaps I and those around me (including pets) wouldn't last even twenty minutes. Twenty minutes later, we'd start drawing lots with toothpicks of different sizes to see who we'd eat first. But, on the other hand, in our midst, there are people who could live through the Hundred Years' War without running out of toilet paper. Beloved grandmothers. Overflowing with chickpeas, with unthinkable things like baby peppers, with mashed potatoes on top (just in case), but also with potatoes, perfectly spread out, so they'd last. This kind of grandmother who always has cans of soda (in my house, soda wouldn't even reach the fridge, we're so excited about it) and potatoes (we buy potatoes to be eaten immediately). Who has a freezer full of capers with labels, ice cream, cannelloni they made, and who when they go shopping asks for sweet ham "that's so big" - "Because it's for my grandson," they say.

To the grandmothers around me (the mothers ofbefore), who know what it's like to suffer from not being able to feed their children, won't be caught short on empty shelves, these gentlemen of the European Union. Mine hugged us and said, "Oh, my fat cats." She called us "metas," that is, breasts. I understand very well that someone who has two breasts from which the milk has flowed to feed her own children or those of others—I love the idea of nodes—must necessarily have this magical and fun instinct to fish. We all need a grandmother nearby to ask us if we're still hungry, European gentlemen.