In Food and In Love

My most recent ex said he fell in love with me when he saw how much butter I put on my pasta. He said he loved the way I enjoy food. We were once in a deep and sleepy love. It was complicated. 

Always indulging, I’d say I'm a glutton, but not a beast. I just enjoy a meal very deeply, tasting it under my skin. I have always loved food and its indulgent qualities. Not only that, 

I’ve loved the craft of creating a good meal. I got this notion from my mother. She was always cooking, and I would always join her. I would sit on the counter, watching her every move, occasionally piping in, asking if I could chop up onions or garlic. She taught me at a very young age the language of food and the love that it can translate into. She similarly sat behind her own mother as a child, learning as she watched.

My parents are the kind of people who will spend hundreds of dollars on food. The experience of a meal is what they prefer to spend their money on, on a deliciously intricate set up with a chef who knows what they’re doing. It is something they prioritize. Food is language, it is culture they think; nourishing and holding. Food is love.

The essence of this love was pasta. Pasta has always been my comfort food. I remember being a kid and getting out of a long hot bath and being handed a big bowl of spaghetti drenched in a cheap canned marinara sauce. The eyes of my stomach bulged out with excitement, my mouth watered to taste the salty, sweet, buttery combination. I would slurp down every glossy noodle in seconds, my lips stained red from the sauce, and then crash on the couch in a carb-induced coma. I always sleep best after a huge bowl of pasta.

A close friend of mine once told me that pasta cures depression. Not literally, but close enough. I type “do carbs cure depression?” into the search bar and the first thing that comes up is a verywellmind.com  article.“In a sense, reaching for sugary, carbohydrate-rich foods can be a way of self-medicating depression”, it says. “Research seems to support this theory: Having a meal high in carbohydrates tends to raise levels of serotonin, while a high-fat, high-protein meal may reduce them.”

 Well shit, I’ll take it. 

And with that note, I think I’ll make some. 

A recipe I like to whip up is pasta a olio. It’s easy enough for someone who’s never even heard of the dish, but for me, because of the countless times I’ve made this, my hands just work without a word from my brain. It sounds fancy, but only requires a few ingredients. Oil, garlic, and parsley. And some type of pasta noodle, of course. Cheese is optional, but preferred. I always like to add extra. 

I used to make this dish for my friends my freshman year of college, five or so of us all crowded in a cramped and stale dorm kitchen. I would sweat over that godforsaken electric stovetop and cook a huge portion of pasta a olio, dishing it out to them in shitty plastic bowls. Despite all of us cramped in this little kitchen hunched over on wobbly stools, or the sweltering stove top, and the dishes that towered in my sink, I loved it. Because they loved it. I remember heads clumped together over their bowls, ravenously scarfing down the noodles like five hyenas. I was more than happy to cook for them. The ingredients were few and cheap, but more importantly it was good. Even more importantly, we shared it together. Those who I still talk to occasionally ask me to make it for them. 

I’ll start the recipe off by putting some water on to boil and salting it heavily. I used to put oil in my water so the noodles wouldn’t stick together, but I heard some chef say it can increase the risk of the sauce not sticking to the pasta, so I stopped. Pasta choice is also important. I like something rounded like penne or fusilli, but this dish requires a noodle that is thick and droopy, like linguini. A shape that will dance in the sauce. Next, I prep all my ingredients. Finely chop some parsley and grate a lot of cheese, something hard and nutty, like parmesan. If you’re following along, dice a few cloves of garlic, enough to make you want to brush your teeth after you eat this. A more traditional version of pasta a olio requires very thinly sliced garlic, so thin you can see light through it. Think of that Goodfellas scene of Paulie slicing garlic with a razor blade. Well, I’m too lazy to do that so I recklessly chop some up with my dull knife on my roommate's crappy cutting board, splintering wood around the edges from overuse. Once I’ve done that, there’s not much else to do but patiently and lovingly wait for your pasta to cook, al dente, about 10 minutes. 

I once hooked up with the sous chef of Momofuko, a ramen bar in New York City, with two Michelin stars. It was a one-night stand with whom I don't talk to anymore. He was everything I pictured a chef would be; quiet, meditative, with rough hands, and he carried his weight well. He had a soft rounded and sweet face with two glaring eyes that sunk into his head. In the middle of the night, hungry and a bit drunk, I made us pasta and a homemade red sauce. I used canned tomatoes, an onion, carrots and a spoon of honey for sweetness, with a couple cloves of garlic, then some fresh herbs tossed in right at the end. We whispered over the bubbling sauce, lit only by the light above the stove. Our lips made shadow puppets across the backsplash. We ate and smoked in my garden where I picked those herbs. This garden reminds me of my grandmother’s, he said and asked to cook for me in return, saying that I’d invited him over and made a home cooked meal, the least I could do was return the favor. He enjoyed the pasta, scarfing it down in drunken fervor, and days later messaged me a photo of his grandmother’s garden. We text each other occasionally, but I doubt we will ever see one another again. And I never did get that meal.

After eating, we passed out. I remember sleeping very deeply that night. 

Once the pasta is done, strain it, but you must save a mug full of pasta water. That is key! To any sauce really. The starches that seep out of the noodles into the water will help bind all the flavors, allow them to mingle, get to know each other and sing in your mouth. Next, to a large saucepan, maybe even a skillet, add a lot of olive oil. So much oil you’re simply disgusted with yourself, but that’s essentially the sauce, the aromatics are infused within. Once the oil is shimmering, add your garlic into the oil. Stand over the pan and breathe in, deeply. Ahhhhhh, garlic! One of the best things that grows on this planet. Once it starts getting really fragrant, but before turning golden, I like to add a couple dashes of red pepper flakes for some spice to round out the rich and bold notes of the olive oil.  Then add the pasta. Mix it around, occasionally dosing in some of that precious starchy water. I’m sure this dish has measurements, but I never measure anything out. No real cooks do. Cooking is all about intuition. When you start cooking often, you learn how much of what salt, spices, butter will look and taste like. What it feels like in your hands. Cooking is intuitive, it is emotional. It cannot be taught. It's something you just realize one day after hours and hours of arduous practice and a lot of failures. You just know. 

Once the oil and water combine and give you a silken texture, add in your parsley so it wilts. Mix around, add the cheese, salt and pepper to taste. The best part is when the serving spoon is caked in extra cheese and garlic. I save that bite for myself. Then, serve preferably in a delicate and ornate bowl with a weighty fork. Enjoy! 

I sit down now, to enjoy this meal myself. I’ve cooked this many times, for others or myself alone, and it always tastes like a home. A home I created and nurtured and built from the ground up. One that is familiar, warm and just makes sense. The noodles are soft and chewy, delicately coated in the oil with chunks of garlic and parsley bound by cheese pulls. Sometimes I'll add a squeeze of lemon on top, the acidity curdling on my tongue and settling nicely with all the fats in this dish. What I love about pasta the most is that it’s simply a base. The rest is up to you. A soft and bouncy glutinous pillowed base to which you can add salty, sweet, acid, or fat. Any food can act as a base. Any food is what you make it. But you could dump your whole pantry into your pot of noodles and it would likely end up being a satisfying meal. Now I gobble down the rest of those fatty golden strips and scoop up the fallen bits at the bottom of the bowl. This dish leaves my lips greasy and my mouth smelling of garlic. 

I know I will sleep well tonight.