Paris, parsley and pasta

by Sophie

I was in Paris when I received a text from my mum saying my dad was in hospital, again. As an alcoholic these hospital trips were no rarity for my father but the frequency and unsurprising nature of them did not reduce my anxiety. Repeatedly having seizures (in a Tescos car park, in the newsagents around the corner from my house, at home alone and falling down the stairs, breaking his leg and cracking his head open) were the cause but nothing would stop him drinking. When it was announced he might have pneumonia I had a quick google and found myself in a state of panic. 

Distance added to my worry. I normally live about 2 hours away but i wasn’t going home for a few more days and couldn’t afford another flight. I lay in bed waiting for my friend next to me to wake up and once she did spent my day thinking about what we would have for dinner. I find that food is the only remedy when I feel low, I spend hours watching ‘River Cottage,’ and browsing recipe books, but here I had none of my  usual comforts. 

The aim of the trip to Paris was to eat well so when I requested to make dinner my friend eyed me suspiciously. She is normally in charge of the cooking and is very good at it, she’d made steak with garlic greens the night before and it was a tough act to follow. We visited the local Monoprix and after walking around and eyeing up the fish counter, smelling the herbs in the vegetable section and thinking ‘carbs will help me here’ I decided what to make. Tagliatelli with prawns, chorizo, garlic and parsley. Quite a simple dish but it was the best meal I’ve ever made, my friend even quipped ‘I didn’t know you could cook’. I don’t think I will ever be able to make or eat the meal again but I always keep it in mind. 

Electric

The tomato sauce, bright with specs of green (oregano), covered my lips as I slurped the long, knotted, homemade pasta we overcooked. The eggplant Parmesan was cold and seemed like it soaked in its own water but it was deliciously cheesy. All the effort we put in to prepare this birthday dinner helped us ignore the few mistakes we made along the way. We even had seconds. And thirds.

It was fascinating to watch the filamentous beaten eggs slowly being incorporated into the ring of flour formed onto the kitchen’s working surface. Heaps of flour could be found even on the kitchen floor. Once I manage to blend the flour and eggs in a somewhat homogenous mix, Anna took over and started kneading the dough. Watching my tomboy girlfriend painfully handling the task while wearing a bright pink apron on which could be read the word “princess” made me laugh so hard I had to take a video to commemorate the event.

Giving the dough its actual pasta form proved to be more mechanical than expected, but was quickly done in three simple steps:

1. Roll out the dough to make it thinner
2. Insert the dough in a (preferably) shiny, silver pasta machine’s opening
3. Crank the pasta maker as many times as needed to make long, thin, stringy pasta

Making the eggplant Parmesan failed to be as exciting as making the pasta itself, but the process was nonetheless interesting. Anna pulled out an enormous tub of breadcrumb to cover the eggplant slices while I grated some cheese and waited for the oil to sizzle in the pan. I was in charge of grating the said cheese, while little drops of boiling oil flew off the pan and burnt our arms.

The white wine we drank and the electronic ambient music we listened to created a perfect, mellow ambiance, which was mixed with a feeling of closeness and intimacy brought by cooking together. She made sure to set up the table in her dining room with the fanciest cutlery and plates she could find. Anna even bought a simple, glass water jug to make the dinner seem that more special. We talked for hours, and felt like we were the only people on Earth for a moment, until we noticed Anna’s younger sister quietly coming down the stairs to sneakily take some food back to her room.

Food takes an essential and central part in our lives. We were both brought up to appreciate and enjoy it, rather than just see the technical and necessary aspect of it. This food memory is therefore made even more notable by the fact that we prepared it and worked hard for it—together. Eating the food we made was not the highlight of this dinner, although it still was an essential element of it.

Eating pasta salad on a doorstep in Canada

by Sarah

I remember eating a homemade pasta salad on the back doorstep of a family friend’s house in the country outside Ottawa, Ontario, Canada whilst on holiday in the mid 1990s. I was looking out over their backyard to their barn and stables and the landscape beyond, which felt like one of the biggest open spaces I had ever seen in my life. I ate the salad with a fork straight from the large bowl it had been mixed in and it was delicious. Every now and then the memory of the taste of that salad dressing returns to me and I crave it to distraction, but I have never found it again.