Angel hair pasta.
I whisper the name of this delicate entree into the anxious ear of my trembling waiter, careful to be gentle with its exquisite celestial sounds.
The fragile lining of his ear blushes the color of sweet chardonnay.
He knows it’s what I want.
It’s what I always order when it is featured on the menu.
To strip the silky golden tresses from some unsuspecting angel and have the nerve to drench those locks in the rich red juice of sun-ripened tomatoes is gutsy cooking.
If the chef made a trip to the confessional between courses, he would be issued a platter of Hail Marys to eat as penance for his nerve.
But I feel no guilt for such a sin as angel hair pasta consumption.
Heaven must be rampant with clean-headed women with wings all because of my insatiable appetite for their heavenly hair.
I am not some predatory infidel.
The notion of gnoshing on the ponytail of a saint or sampling the sideburns of an apostle hold no gastronomical appeal for me.
Martyr moustache manicotti?
But angel hair pasta, that platter of golden locks shorn off the pates of the singing seraphim?
Bring it on.
I will probably suffer some repentant heartburn tonight for my sin, but I will hum my novena lullaby in the vigil light glow of my twilight sleep, content with my belly full of angel hair pasta.