Baby Octopus

It was a grey sunday, before the last week of school, when three things came together to create something really good.
1. A memory of something I ate ten years ago in Boston's North End .
2. The ever present half empty bottle of marinara.
3. The way the baby octopus glistened at Whole Foods, like they'd just been pulled from the sea.
(#1 -An appetizer at a place Wendy took me to called Limoncello. Just a few of the tiny cephalapods stewed in a tomato broth with some firm garbanzo beans. So profoundly simple.)
I boiled the little guys for 40 minutes, with a wine cork in the water. While that was happening I heated up a saute pan, Olive oil. Tossed in some chopped onion, garlic. When that was fragrant but not burnt, I emptied in the red sauce, let that hiss for a bit.
I ladled in about six of the octopus, now with the legs curled up regally, their grape-shaped heads tilted back, devil may care. Added a little of their boil water, which had become rose colored.
Opened a can of cannelini beans, emptied in half, with their goo. A few pinches of sea salt my son had mortar and pestled with oregano when he was bored one day. A few chili flakes. Cooked it a few more minutes. Turned it off, let it cool.
Was about to plate it up, when I thought of another favorite Boston place, around the corner from Limoncello, on Hanover street called Calamari's. A closet sized restaurant that's always packed, the freshest seafood pastas. No plates used, they serve you the food the pan it was cooked in. But unlike my blackened pans theirs are brushed to a shine.
I took the pan outside and ate under the gray sky. The octopus were soft to the teeth. Everything tasted like the sea. Like the sea somewhere far away.
All the tastes fit. I ate slowly because it was so nice to look at.
Sometimes you get it right.
Try this.