Nurtured from seed, the basil’s burst forth under the sun’s caress. Each leaf plucked perfumes the air with a heady, almost carnal scent. Trug filled, knees weak, I stagger in.
Mortar overflowing, I began the slow ritual. Pound and turn, press, and grind with gentle touch. Garlic next, then piñón nuts and grated Parmesan. Extra virgin, twinkling in like a teasing golden shower, binds it all. The lumaconi is ready, too, the perfect tooth.
She lies naked the length of the table, waiting. I ladle her white flesh pesto green. Drawing trails with the pasta snails, I feed us both.
