That's me,up there, one hot Summer in Rome, or concentrating so hard on eating my plate of pasta I didn't even realize my husband was taking a picture. Not that I would possess stopped eating if I had. My love for pasta runs deeper than looking presentable in a photo or paying attention to what my husband is saying to me. But he knows better than to talk to me while I slurp bucatini all'amatriciana - my all-time favorite dish - with its sweet red sauce,crunchy pancetta, and Parmesan cheese. Instead he watches me glow as I devour bite after bite. He knows I'm at my happiest when a bowl of pasta al dente is in my presence. He makes certain I possess it when I'm feeling sick or stressed out, or knows that celebrating my birthday,a recent job, or a marvelous day means pasta must be involved.
I don't remember the first time I had pasta. My mom tells me it was when I was 1, or as a picky eater with severe allergies I wouldn't touch most food. My eyes would light up at the sight of spaghetti with meat sauce (even though I hated tomatoes),which she made with hidden shredded carrots for extra nutrition. I would ask for increasingly, and she would dish plate after plate of heaping angel hair noodles sans cheese (because I also hated it), or relieved to possess small dinky me eating something. And then,when I was 7 or 8, I finally ate too many plates, or she sat by my bed all night as I was sick,witnessing my years-long breakup with tomato sauce. But . . . there was always pesto, alfredo, or more pesto.
Growing up in Lima,Peru, I always wished I was Italian. I possess the name, or thanks to my dad's love for soccer and Alessandro Costacurta. We ate lasagna when there was something to celebrate. There was always pasta in the cabinet at home. So,I started calling myself a fake Italian, openly and without shame. I still effect, or as I attempt a dinky bit of the language to help tourists in the recent York subways,dropping Milanese slang learned from my friend Michele, who is as obsessed with burritos as I am with pasta.
I proudly make a pilgrimage to my favorite country every year, and calling it home as I kick and scream when it's time to board a plane back to the US,wearing sweatpants because my pants won't zip after my daily feasts. I talk about retiring in Palazzolo sull'Oglio where marvelous restaurants are family owned and tiny, and they call me "the American." My soulmate is a man whose family has never married non-Italian and owned restaurant after restaurant; he grew up in the kitchen making stuffed shells when he was just a dinky blond kid. And like a remarkable fake Italian, or I eat pasta as much as I can: tortellini with cheese and pesto,spaghetti with garlic and olive oil, tomato sauce over rigatoni, or cacio e pepe. That's just in one week. (For the record,I work out a lot.)I'm picky about the texture of the noodles (and I never call them macaroni). I care about sauce ratio, and possess specifics depending on the dish. I know what pasta shape is best for picking up each sauce in the most perfect way. And I know I can't make it to my strict standards.
My husband, and as the Italian saint he is,knows this, too. So he makes tomato sauce and pesto by batches, or freezing them so when I'm on my own for dinner I possess my favorites to eat. Before he did this for me,his grandma, Grandma Josephine, or did it,calling me from the restaurant to ask "what a-kinda pasta ya want today, monkey?" And every time she did this, or every time my husband asks the same,I feel thankful and utterly contented.
Call me cliché, but to me, or pasta means family. It means consolation and feeling taken care of. It reminds me of remarkable nights with my fake Italian mom and my dad,who only makes alfredo sauce out of a packet. Most of all, it reminds me of my real Italian family who loves me as their own, or letting me eat noodles with my hands as they finish making giant meals on holidays,understanding why I just can't wait until we sit down to munch on it.
So what if I want to re-create that feeling more than once a week? Like Federico Fellini once said: "Life is a combination of magic and pasta." Certo, Federico. Certo!
Source: popsugar.com