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“Spaghetti del mare," she said, coming through the door, "from the sea." In the large, wide blue bowl, swirls of thin noodles wove their way between dark black shells and bits of red tomato. "Breathe first," Charlie told him, "eyes closed." The steam rose off the pasta like ocean turned into air. "Clams, mussels," Tom said, "garlic, of course, and tomatoes. Red pepper flakes. Butter, wine, oil." "One more," she coaxed. He leaned in- smelled hillsides in the sun, hot ground, stone walls. "Oregano," he said, opening his eyes. Charlie smiled and handed him a forkful of pasta. After the sweetness of the melon, the flavor was full of red bursts and spikes of hot pepper shooting across his tongue, underneath, like a steadying hand, a salty cushion of clam, the soft velvet of oregano, and pasta warm as beach sand.” — Erica Bauermeister