Follow the Lidia

"...(just don't substitute canned tomatoes)."

We did. Happily, we substituted.

Capellini with a Sauce of Anchovies, Capers, and Fresh Tomatoes became Linguine with a Sauce of Anchovies, Capers, and Canned Tomatoes.

Our rebellion rewarded us.

Racing against the dwindling evening light, there was a flurry of activity in the kitchen. The table set. The salad made. Roberto walked through the door just as I dipped a spoon into a can of San Marzano. While he changed into his eating clothes (jeans and a t-shirt), I extracted the first tomato, followed by the second, third, fourth, fifth...Etc.

By the time the last tomato was pulled, a puddle of tomato juice had gathered dangerously close to the edge of the cutting board. Oh horror.

Wielding large metal spoon, Roberto coerced chopped garlic, shallot, anchovies, capers and peperoncino into the waiting extra virgin olive oil. I sliced a seven grain and opened a bottle of red.

The water boiled. The salt was added. The pasta was dropped. About a half pound linguine danced about. Roberto added the tomatoes, a bit of the juice, a heap of chopped parsley and a smidgen of salt to the pan. Leaning over the sauce, I took my hand and wafted with three distinct and delicate flourishes, the smell up to my waiting nose. This was followed by a spoonful to taste.

"This is perfect." I said.

The cooked linguine fell into the waiting pan of sauce where it was stirred until each strand had been properly dressed. We took our warmed bowls and filled them greedily. What would we do without freshly grated parmesan?

After a second smaller serving, we both sat basking with bellies full.

"Take some of that bread and sop up the rest of the sauce." He said.

I wanted to. I really did. The gravity wishing to pull me towards the pan was great.

"That's okay. One must remain civilized in these situations." I said.