From the cauldron it slides naked into light. A boisterous overture of steam rises up unveiling the manna in purest form. Tangled, tender strands surface from a scalding deluge. Vaporous tendrils ascend from the random weave - signals to fulfill an age old purpose.
Nearby bubbles an ambrosia of bold organics fused. Plum tomatoes taken in their prime from burdened vines, olive oil of amber, fluid form. Wine mixes with its brethren berry and toasts the culinary outcome ahead. Garlic spews its flagrant, fragrant dictates. Herbs swirl sweetly swimming like the mermaids of Lago di Como.
Aromas arouse genetic memory as the sauce's sentries hearken back to hearths of Modena. The expanding bouquet permeates even the least porous objects in its boundless reach. The two principal subjects separated, await their coupling in a ritual passed down from ancient Apennine lines. The bovine of Parma raise their grazing heads portending the impending - their cultured contribution to that communion.
The sauce so long in the making joins its laced mistress. Twisted blonde braids loosen with the hot potion's pour. Each thin, flat strand thoroughly anointed by the ruby red reduction. Atop comes more of the sacred sauce and finally the cows' crown of Parmigiano-Reggiano neatly shaved for the salient supper.
Torment precedes the first twist to fork and trip to tongue as Grace is said with anxious sincerity saved only for something such as this. Eyes closed, other senses open, the honor is humbly, hungrily partook. The palette now pleasured by a peasant's simple staple.
Again twirls the tines and lifts spun morsel in a choreographed minuet. Taste buds engulf the fork's precious freight. Now is the teeth's turn to consecrate, as the linguine resists the jaw futilely with faint firmness obtained by its timely escape from the pot.
The room plays Prima but the brain hears Bocelli, fronting a symphony of flavor and fumes. Tomatoes which started worldly, acidic and plain, have risen divine. Now the perfect stir of sweet and savory. No more tart and mealy, the pulp it melts in grateful mouth. Basil and oregano fire their final charges and garlic continues its welcome sorties.
With sight restored and pleasure piqued, the plate of pasta lies alluring. To a basket eyes flit and from it's picked a heel so hard but soft within. Torn apart it sends a scent acquired by brick oven birth - its role to sop the sauce that runs aside the swirl sublime. That bite of bread a bonus, itself a coveted cuisine.
Away attention turns to one more taunt the table holds. From fiasco pours into fluted glass, wine which lifts to exultant lips. Through them slip that climactic sip that completes linguine's service and all the bodily bliss.