When Spaghetti alla Puttanesca has recently fallen on your intrigue (via the novel to which you have been falling asleep), and then you are snowed in for the day (with just enough interval in the snow fall for piano babies to tramp across your yard and fill your kitchen with boots and gloves and every other wet thing they were able to gather between the car and your door) and (though you have enough food in your refrigerator) there is something too romantic about just so happening to have the somewhat random ingredients on hand, and so you break open the wine, and get to cooking.
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