making fresh pasta on a Sunday afternoon, photo by royal paradise.

2 cups all purpose flour

3 extra large eggs

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

Mound flour. Into a center well, add the rest. Break yolks and remember the first time you made homemade ravioli in high school from a vintage cookbook. Incorporate these memories as you struggle to keep everything together when the world is falling apart around you.

After 10 minutes of wrestling with self doubt and despair, the dough should come together under your loving caress. Maybe it will be too dry, crumbling like democracy, and you’ll need to add your flowing tears to the mix as you ask yourself how did we get here. Or maybe the dough will be too wet, and you’ll need to sprinkle in a little flour at a time just like telling yourself it will all be ok. Either way, we’re here now, we’re doing this, and we have to do what we can to keep ourselves whole.

You’re doing your best.

When the dough reaches a firm elasticity, form a ball and cover tightly with plastic wrap. Rest for 30 minutes without guilt because how the hell are you going to survive without giving yourself a break? Even the dough needs a moment to gather itself, to hydrate and to lay naked and imperfect on the table. This makes it beautiful and gives it the strength to do what it must. Maybe drink some water now, or close your eyes and listen to the atmosphere buzzing around you.

After the dough has rested, cut it into four equal pieces. Using your hands or a rolling pin, gently flatten it into smooth quarter inch sheets. From here you may feed the sheets into a pasta machine to be crushed (as slowly as your aspirations of saving the world) or continue working with the rolling pin. You don’t need special equipment, just a little flour on the kitchen table that has held you in your stillness and grief. Let the weight of the rolling pin rocking back and forth over the spreading dough mimic the rhythm of your breath. Stop when it feels like you’ve had enough, flour both sides of each pliant sheet.

To cut the pasta, either feed it back into the mangle of the machine, listening as the squeaking gear reminds you of the little kid riding the tricycle up and down the driveway, or cut it with a rolling blade. Imagine you are dividing the world between the deserving and undeserving poor, the haves and have nots like the bastard ogliarchs who have the nerve to 1984 us into societal collapse, wonder how in the hell all of this is happening. Remember the history of colonial violence: none of this is new, only technology has given so much power to the surveillance state. Roll cut pasta into small nests, let rest on parchment. Remember in your heart that you belong to yourself and to your people. See the beauty in the work of your hands.

Bring a pot of water to a boil. Salt it gently, remember your ancestors who endured so you could be here. Drop in the little pasta nests like prayers, let them swim and bathe in the salt water for 3 minutes, or until al dente. Strain, as you will to keep your humanity intact, and serve immediately to those you love. Laugh with all of your laughter and weep with all of your tears, and hold onto each other with everything in your hearts.

pasta: a love story