By supper the colander had already laid a stack of tiny towels along the rim. Each strand of pasta greeted a hole, nodded to the pot, and only then sat down in a single warm plate.
We asked at the kiosk. "I used to shake everything in a hurry," said a cook with a wooden spoon. "Now I wait. They say hello to the holes. They nod to the pot. Then supper begins, and not a moment sooner."
The next evening the same plate came back a little warmer at the rim and waited for its nod again. The pot kept quiet until the towels were folded.