crushed garlic

Glorious oil stains

And the stench of frying onion.

I open a window

Breathing deep when the air is freed from you.

Reminding myself quietly of how far I've come

And how quick you cried when you were left in the dark.

I do not fear garlic and onion

As they crispen in my old iron pot.

The water roars as it boils; eating up the salt

And I add mushrooms, olives and chorizo

For the base of the sauce.

My wooden spoon is trustworthy

A weapon you'll hope I won't use.

Inhaling again

The smell of pasta soon shared with only the closest.

I thought I'd at least mock you slightly

Enjoy as you watch from the window; whining again because dusk has come

For you; it stretches its greedy talons

And no, I won't stop grating parmesan.

Because the pasta sauce I made in February is being heated now;

Herbs and all, I smell the sweetness of tomatoes

From an age ago; ripe still in their eternal, jarred joy.

Remember how much you should miss me.

I send a waft over to let your mouth water from the other side.

Begone

My command the night knows well and I do not blink.

I serve the meal; buttered bread and gifted wine.

Knowing you will wonder what made me so proud of myself,

And why you can no longer scratch past my mask.

~

If you look closely, you'll find a half-recipe for pasta sauce.

I say 'half' because we make the pasta sauce from scratch and jar it, so the hard part with the tomatoes is easy peasy when the time comes.

Not passata - the full-blown sauce. Onions, garlic, tomatoes, herbs. All cooked and ready to heat up. But you always do onions and garlic (plus some goodies in there too) on the day, fresh.

Cheese!

And please salt the pasta water. Or my Biz Nonna will come haunt teach you how to do it.

Buon Appetito!

- Red