Talking about Sunday lunch (pranzo) in my previous post made me think of another dish that was only featured in that meal: pollo arrosto. We would buy it at a store, una rosticceria, actually 'the' store, because we had one favorite place. I am not sure whether it is still in business, but I hope it is.
As a child, I loved going with my father to the rotisserie to get the roast chicken: I loved the smell of the place and the look of the food that was made and sold there. I usually got to carry the warm bag with the chicken and would bask in the heady smell that came from it. I alternated between eating the breast (il petto) and the thigh (la coscia). I remember the taste of rosemary and the crispness of the skin. To this day, smelling rosemary reminds me of the pollo arrosto from my childhood.
If a person is a pollo, he or she is a simpleton, someone easily taken in. Something or someone that fa ridere i polli (literally: makes chickens laugh) is ridiculous, or acts in a ridiculous way. When I am able to predict exactly what my husband will do, he always asks me: "How did you know?" to which I answer: "Conosco i miei polli." Literally it translates: "I know my chickens" and it means that I am familiar with their ways, so I can predict what they will do.