Friday I crawled home tense and broken and, feeling more Gollum than Merry, opted to stay in while Scott went out. In a few human moments I managed to savor up a pot of black beans and put them on to cook. Then a sip of red wine, the opening strains of Sousa’s “Liberty Bell” from the TV, and next thing I knew, it was four hours later, Scott was waking me out of a black sleep, and the house was soaked in the foul smell of burnt beans.
Sunday I returned to the stove and lived down the black beans incident with a pot of damn fine pasta alla puttanesca (”ho sauce” is my working translation), finally making a dent in the mountain of tomatoes gathered on the counter. It was spicy and sassy and good enough to jar and sell at market, I say!
I’d promised Mum a photo of my crazy new flamenco apron, which I donned on this occasion. Mum’s Bretonne-Sevillana sister Christine sent one each to me and my sister over the summer. Merci beaucoup, Christine! Grosses bises de Oregon!
Ten years ago I visited Christine during Semana Santa and fell totally in love with Sevilla. I’ve vowed one day to return for both Fiestas de Primavera and dance flamenco in full costume…
Mmm… puttanesca. Though what kind of pasta did you use? I saw it on the menu at Miceli’s in Hollywood but served with vermicelli, which I thought was too fine and delicate for ho sauce so I asked them to change the pasta to spaghetti. (Then again, I believe I confused vermicelli with capellini, but I still think I was justified in wanting a thicker pasta)
Did the Scottmeister go deep and say “Ho! Ho! Ho!” when you served it up? In the apron? Yikes. Too thick for this mamasita. Not the sauce, the discussion of same.
Will be making reservations to be served it, asap.
Bisses de Carmel. (They are extra sticky…)
PS
This is a Santa reference for those unable to follow the twisting path of my thinking….