I’m Throwing Spaghetti at the Wall

Ten months ago, I woke up and realized I hadn’t a clue who I was. I had all of the social constructs down: mother, wife, business owner, partner, bestie, designer. But those are just adjectives assigned to me in an effort to tidy—I mean title—me up.

So who am I really?

I know I’m more than an adjective. What do I like? (Insert sound: motorboat lips.) Do I have any hobbies? Uh, nope.

Crap.

So I started throwing spaghetti at the wall to see what would stick. It was time to get my hobbyless arse an interest or two.

Only it literally involved spaghetti.

For some odd reason, I thought it’d be a fantastic idea to teach myself how to make it. From scratch. Sans KitchenAid. Just me, my hands (newly manicured with long red nails—part of the who-am-I plight), 00 flour, semolina flour, eggs, water, sometimes EVOO and the occasional pasta roller-outer—the kind you clamp to the top of your table and crank to make thin sheets of pasta.

Ever the star pupil, I armed myself with Marc Vetri’s The Pasta Book, as he’s supposed to be a godfather of the stuff. (And no, I am not being paid by anyone on his team. The book is good. Get it. I did eat at Fiorella in Philly once. Had the cacio e pepe. It was delicious. He was not there to make it. I was not surprised.)

I digress.

So I bought Vetri’s book (and all of the shit he told me to buy to pull off a decent handcrafted noodle), read it cover to cover before ever ripping open a bag of 00 flour. And then it was time to put my skills to the test.

I measured out the flour and mounded it on the surface of my kitchen table. Made a well in the center, cracked in a few eggs then slowly started incorporating the flour into the eggy center until the dough came together. I did my version of kneading the ball of paste, covered it with plastic wrap and let it sit.

Hot damn, I was a natural pastaiolo!

Thirty minutes later, I cut the ball into four quarters. Rolled each of them out and fed them through the pasta roller-outer.

That’s when my enthusiasm turned into what in the actual fuck am I doing?

Sensing some frustration coming from the direction of the kitchen, my husband instinctively made me a Tucci—my moniker for a bone-dry gin martini with a hint of vermouth and a lemon-peel twist. Social media tells us that Mr. Stanley Tucci (also known as my boyfriend) makes a very mean martini.

I tell ya, making pasta with long nails makes a very mean pastaiolo.

It is just plain stupid.

You poke holes in the ultra-thin sheets and the dough likes to pack itself firmly into the undersides of the nails. I should add that I had decided to make lorighittas. The book describes them as pasta that looks like loops of braided rope. I chose them because they reminded me of the gold bamboo hoop earrings I used to rock in 1990. (Cue LL Cool J’s Around the Way Girl.)

In hindsight, spaghetti would have been the wiser choice.

Three hours later, the pasta ropes were finished, cooked al dente, beautifully sauced and devoured in under fifteen minutes.

All of that work for mere minutes of pleasure?

Balls.

Undeterred, I remained committed to making pasta every Sunday for about a month and a half. I was able to shorten the process to 2.5–3 hours. In addition to the lorighittas, I rolled out farfalle, tagliatelle, garganelli, gnocchi sardi and tagliolini.

The star, however, was mostly the sauce.

It turns out I have a real gift there. I enjoy the layering of flavors and the freedom to create without the constraint of precise measurement.

A note to my “found” self:

I like creativity.
I don’t like constraint.
I like freedom.
I don’t like being told what to do.

So maybe it’s not the hobbies that are important after all, but rather what I’m gleaning about myself while I’m messing around with them. Unearthing a little more about Jessie is delivering far more satisfaction than a finished plate of farfalle alla Trapanese.

Which was fucking outstanding, by the way.

I haven’t made pasta in months.

Though my long red nails remain wonderfully intact.

And The Pasta Book looks absolutely fabulous on my coffee table.