A Bowl of Pasta
The end of July. Tomatoes of all maturation dangled from the vine. Herbs flourished. The cupboard bulged with pasta.
I cut chicken breast into bite size pieces and sauteed mindfully in a shallow bed of salted butter and extra virgin olive oil.
I rinsed herbs under a delicate shower of cool water.
I peeled tomatoes and then commenced to dice. A methodical dice.
The kitchen, quiet. The sun shifting slowly towards sleep. The garden heaving heavy sighs under wisps of shade.
We would eat under the umbrella of streaming natural light entangled in the paddles of an overhead fan, safe from mosquito and sweat.
A fistful of basil. A generous grating of Parmesan. Cracked black pepper.
Al dente, zita cut.
Eating quietly, the two of us.