This week’s pasta will get finished tonight. It heats slowly in the oven. Scents drift down the hall, into my study. I sip a whiskey, and write. Tasty until the end, this sauce is. (Forgot to say I chop the carrots and throw them onto the shredded meat, before I “pour the remainder of the Dutch oven mixture over it all.”)
The scent from my kitchen, combined with the view out my window, of that little area on the hill I call my little Tuscany, connect my memory with a calm day in Montepulciano, Italy, 2007, the day I tasted my first cinghiale ragu. My, my, my, my, my.
Work is a little better, these days.
Cousins have been supportive. Caller ID, too.