I devoured, straight from the pan with the most logical utensil, a spoon. No bread.
A simple preparation. A few scoops of leftover tomato sauce into the smallest of pans. While the cold burned off I cracked two eggs into a bowl. When the sauce sang its gentle song I poured the eggs in, dead center. A sprinkle of salt. A grind of pepper.
It wasn't long before I was turning off the flame and dusting the top with parmesan and parsley.
I looked forward to breaking the yolk, letting it—allowing it—for a brief moment to run with the sauce.
And I imagined myself and Roberto in a cafe, someplace—Berlin—Paris—Rome—engaging in such a culinary endeavor after an evening of drink and discussion with like-minded friends. Steam rising from tiny cups of strong coffee mingling with the haze of cigarette smoke, sweat, and sleepy gazes.
It seems I've let my mind wander. Again.