Tonight’s pleasure is a warm plate of carbonara in my hands. The moment I touch it, a sense of calm washes over me. The heat of the plate warms my fingers, and the scent — creamy, rich, and a little smoky — feels like a hug I didn’t know I needed. In this simple gesture, holding dinner before the first bite, there’s already comfort.
I raise my fork slowly, admiring the way the pasta glistens in the light. The golden sauce, the curls of pancetta, the soft steam — it all feels so gentle, so present. There’s no rush. This isn’t just food, it’s a little ceremony. A moment of beauty I get to enjoy with no need to explain.
The flavors bloom in my mouth — creamy yolk, salty cheese, crisp bacon. My eyes close almost instinctively. I smile. This is it. This is the moment. The whole world shrinks down to one perfect bite. It’s pure pleasure — honest, warm, and grounding.The plate is almost empty, and I feel full — but not just from the food. I feel full of calm, of comfort, of something quiet and satisfying. Tonight, pleasure didn’t come from anything big. It came from this: one plate of pasta, made with care, eaten with love. And that, for me, is enough.
