Friday, July 26, 2013
The last time I asked my unrequited love to let me go, to never speak to me again, I ended the night with comfort food. What could be better than pappardelle noodles? It reminded me of our lovemaking, warm and buttery but still al dente, him stiff enough to please, but us melting in between my legs.
I dined alone, stoically, having no seasoning in my dish other than butter, crushed black pepper, a wee bit of chicken broth, a dash of pecorino romano and the salty taste of my tears.
And then I laughed at how “the salty taste of my tears” would sound so corny in writing.
And then I cried some more about the cooking process that led to this last supper.
It’s the yin of pasta and the yang of sauce.
For months, he’d start hard but stay dry in his heart, my hot water being the only place where he could crack, soften and let go in some kind of crazy sauce of devotion. You see, in order to be happy as a couple, the pasta must let the sauce stick to it, without fear, and both ingredients must blend in harmony.
He was my noodle. The only noodle I adored for a very long time. But my noodle had no give and wouldn’t let me stick, no matter how many wonderful, warm yummy sauces I offered him.
And this got me thinking: you can’t have your pasta and eat it, too.
This is the recipe for love. Both noodle and sauce must surrender to a heavenly combination of flavors and texture and be willing to repeat or vary over and over again, each night, as you humbly prepare supper for someone whose kisses refill that empty pot every day.
My pappardelle, were, of course, delicious, even if I had to eat them while watching stupid reruns on TV.
To be fair, he always complimented me on my cooking. Too bad he didn’t complement my heart.
Photo via VancityAllie on Flickr via Creative Commons license.