not searched. I did not think it could happen. But it is. Gradually, more and more, it has increasingly become an essential truth, a fundamental part of my life. The best thing that can happen in a day's work or a party is that a home cook in Giuliana pentolone pasta and I can bring my plate to its periphery and serve a discrete portion. Gone are the thunder, tigers, lightning, but also the chopped chicken, mayonnaise and apple in her mother's house in Valencia, Venezuela, called chicken salad and it was until late last my favorite dish. Something similar happened to hallaca impossible to eat right around here: missing the banana leaf, banana Naguanagua, and if a miracle would allow customs to aéreotransportador, missing the atmosphere and perhaps a tear left over, a stream of them. But those are the reasons why the pasta, pasta, Giuliana, has been consolidating in my language, my brain and my heart. Giuliana pulp has grown for its own reasons to merit carved freehand, by dint of battles won and lost with the affections, tastes and nostalgia. Together we kicked countless streets until the best pot, pentolone , the first store. Lovingly we have experienced and discussed about what tomatoes used, to what extraperlista get to finally decide that the tomato as the water had to be the place that gave us the fire. The only thing we have not altered the original recipe is pasta, which has to come from Italy, but that's not a problem because Barilla and De Cecco years sailing all over the streets of the world, flooded with Lambrusco. This is how any noon just before thinking of what to eat, just a four-eyed gaze to decide without even a word we want to eat a bel piatto di pasta al pomodoro . Yes, why not? And the pasta is coming out of the sky of your hands, quickly and slowly, in just a few minutes when the kitchen is filled with the heavy smell of tomatoes and starches because the air on the other burner boiling water and pasta fattening threads wait a minute the President that occurs sixty seconds before marking the box in which they have traveled and come home. Then both are merged, pasta and tomatoes, as a matter Malabar. They are the hands of the magician Giuliana you do not see how but blowing pots and screen and presented to our astonished eyes the miracle of the day. That is when I approached my plate and I use a discrete portion to which I add just a teaspoon of Parmigiano and then slowly devour each chewing stroke as if it were a blessing to consecrate the marriage tripartite food that fills my mouth. It's been three minutes and the dish did not see any spaghetto . So bless me for having served a discrete portion and I know that I can repeat. Fall on my plate two or three nutritious pasta cucharadones over consecutively admitted in my mouth, this time from a more deliberate way in which the holder chooses one by one the spaghetto swimmer. Finally, firing all the manuals of etiquette (Goodbye, Galateo. Good bye, Carreño) will be necessary to wet a piece of bread in the tomato that still inhabit the bottom of the plate with the Scarpetta fare.
"Look what Dad's doing then begin to alter children and pleading eyes sent immediately granted Giuliana desire and then start all sweep, turned the bread in powerful language, our dishes until they were translucent, as if the best dishwasher had passed through these mountains.
is a divine pleasure and shared delicious, so simple addition, but only the hands of Giuliana allowed: Giuliana paste.
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