The Sauce was a hot and spicy Sicilian number, she grew up on the pier amongst the spice traders and fish mongers, -salty anchovies, exotic spices and briny olives were in her blood. She was know to have a temper as fiery as Calabrian chili, but under the surface, a comforting sweetness, just about as sweet as Sicilian Conserva di Pomodori.
Fusilli was shy, he was just a common shape. He wasn’t long and twirly like Spaghetti and Capellini, he wasn’t folded into a beautiful pope’s hat or puffed up with a cheese and potato filling like Agnolotti, he was just, …well, Fusilli.
But he did have one thing, -he could hold her.
And she needed to be held.
Fusilli, with Salse Siciliana e Olives
Casarecce, alla Bolognese
Tagliarini, with mint, sorrel and parsley pesto