There is something deeply comforting and sensual to me about spaghetti. The sinuous way it twirls around the tines of your fork; the satisfying bundle it curls into; the squishy - crunch al dente substance of a bite.
My passion for the pasta dates way back, to a lunch plate of spaghetti aux fines herbes
which my mother shared with me when I was about 5 years old. Slippery with butter,
aromatic with herbs, and piquant with pepper, she had to wrap my hand in both of hers
to help gather up and get the stuff into my mouth. It tasted delicious but also felt
delicious in my mouth, although my chin probably took on a good slick lot of it.
If the noodles are made with Italian durum wheat semolina and bronze-die cut, the
sauce is really secondary for me, although I do have strong favorites — my mother’s
“Spaghetti Night” slow-cooked bolognese, for example. Simmering all afternoon,
infusing the house with the richness of garden herbs, garlic, onion, and tomato.
Heaven’s scent, to me.
I will never be able to replicate that sauce, but it continues to slow bubble in the
ineffable fog of my happy childhood. And while it partners divinely with spaghetti, my
ardor is really reserved for the noodle itself, naked, paired best with the memory of my
mother’s hands wrapped around mine as I took my first bite.
Arin Pereira / CDMX, México
