Puttanesca

I'm making puttanesca sauce tonight for a pasta. It was my idea while talking to my darling sister on the phone in an ancient grocery shop in a neighborhood that's not my own, by the boxes and I say:

"Hi, what kind of pasta do they use for puttanesca?"
"Pasta?"
"Noodle, the noodles, what shape of noodle?"
"Um...fettuccini, I think? Or linguini. The thinner one...whichever's thinner" (She's getting annoyed. She's still at work.).
"Fettuccini's on sale. Bingo. Thanks, love you, bye."
"Love you, bye."

I do not think my sister is correct.

This does not matter. It will taste brilliant, I'm sure. I care none about nooks and crannies.

The sauce. My version is a take-no-prisoners, kick-your-butt combo of pancetta, tomatoes, anchovies, olives, garlic, onions, capers and a literal handful of red pepper flakes. Parsley at the end. It's aggressive, offensive, really...the garlic and salt, brine, spice, the red of it, it assaults. There's nothing to ease it up, nothing smooth or tender to even out the flavor that screams and bangs on tongue, cheek, mouth. Throw it in the pan and cook and toss and eat...there's no "technique," no "process" and I never feel like more of a cook for it all. But it's good. And it's comforting, despite its name and sordid history -- popular legend links the sauce to Italian "ladies of the night." But that's ok with me. It finds what needs to be found, hidden in the bubbles and the smell, in the burn all the way from fork to mouth to stomach, oh, you need this burn, oh, it keeps you alive.

Sometimes I need a pinch to remind me that I'm still here. Sometimes the daily to-and-from of life gets to me (and you too, right?). Routine can be a drag. When I feel like screaming in a public place but decency and good common sense prevent me, I need an outlet. I prefer to go hogwild - literally - in the kitchen, because really, where else can I get away with wielding a sharp knife and listening to loud rock-and-roll while I clank and clang pots together and sing at the top of my lungs while drinking wine, beer, whiskey...?

So I make sauce. I stir it carefully and with purpose and with feeling, because what it gives me is so much bigger and of such more import than it can possibly know. I trust the sauce and tell it so. I make a toast to the sauce and drink down my wine. And I mush it around with the still incorrect fettuccini and love it, the bit that gets on my chin and what splatters on my clothes. I dance all the while, not secret and hidden but big broad and full, serious and true. I know that this good can be ready at a moment's notice whenever, wherever I need it.

Yes, there's value in that.