spaghetti

In the absence of whatever the glue was–the holding together stuff, the working stuff, happiness–have spaghetti. Brown onions and garlic, add ground beef, toss in spices (chili flakes, coarse black pepper, basil, oregano, a pinch of herb de Provence), stir together with tomato paste and ripe, diced tomatoes. There is no need for salt.

The trick is in the wine, which glugs from the bottle and into the sauce-covered meat. Let it cook off. Let it cook into the meat. Let it deepen the red to burgundy. The longer you let the meat sit in the wine in the onions in the tomatoes on the stove, on low heat, stirring now and again, tasting now and again, adjusting the spices and flavors, licking your lips with desire, belly rumbling in hunger, the better it will become.

Boil pasta. Have sex. Al dente, so make it fast, savage and clothed if need be.

Plate the spaghetti and ladle the sauce over it. Parmesan to taste.

(Eat. Be happy.)

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