Noodle Musing 1 (Nora)
Pasta and red sauce with salad. It wasn’t anything fancy; the sauce was usually from a jar (a jar that sometimes I would have to whack with a knife to open if my brute strength and rubber bands didn’t work) and the noodles were from the box (usually spaghetti, sometimes penne). But it truly was my comfort food; which my family ate at least once a week.
It was a staple. It was a basic. And it is from this no-stress school night dinner that my big pasta dishes and dreams come from. Because under the fancy ingredients and exciting pasta shapes- is a bowl of noodles, in a sauce you know, that you are eating with people you love. And if you’re lucky- you also get seconds.
13 Questions to Ask While Waiting for Water to Boil (Tessa)
Did I salt this?
How much pasta do I need?
Who am I serving?
What can I chop?
Wait but did I salt this??
Am I breathing?
Water moves constantly. Does pasta water have gravitational pull?
If alliums were in orbit; would garlic be the moon?
If garlic is the moon, am I the ocean? I am as briny as this pasta water; am I in high or low tide?
What is pasta to an ocean -- what am I to you?
Who else in the world is waiting right now?
Wait — but DID I SALT THIS WATER???
How many people are waking up, being born, dying, chopping garlic, standing on one foot in the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the bedroom, kissing, smiling, crying, falling into a state of exhaustion and wonder, listening for the slight hum and bubble and buzz of water boiling? How many people are asleep?
Garlic Musing 1 (Nora)
It’s evening in my larger than most Brooklyn apartment. I’m not bragging. Well, maybe I am.
My hair tied up because for once in my life I’m trying to remember not ot get hair in the food.
An apron tied around, mostly to be evocative of classic cooking and give a touch of “honey I’m home.”
I’m cooking, and also preforming the act of cooking. As aware of the galic confiting as I look confiting the galic (is confiting a verb? That’s a Google). It’s the same act I would put on in my college library; never read a god damn book. I’m kidding. Well…
It’s for an honorable cause. Or at least a relatable cause. Love. Ever heard of it?
(And when I say “love” I mean “like”. And by “like”, I mean that part when it’s new and squiggly and you don’t necessarily know their middle name.)
I’m just waiting for “this person” to enter the scene. I guess some would use the word “lover” but that ultimately does repulse me, no matter how much exposure therapy I try to do. But that’s the reason for the charade. The reason for the presentationality. The pom and circumstance, if you will. For the moment he comes out and sees me, not seeing him, seeing the garlic.
I hear a creak of wood. It’s happening. SHUT UP EVERYONE SHUT UP BE COOL. I lazily stir the garlic. God, this is the performance of my life. Watch out Olivia Coleman. There is an new effortless actress in town.
I feel a cool hand on my shoulder. I shiver. (OKAY SORRY THIS HAS BECOME PORN)
“What are you making.”
“Spaghetti aglio e olio,” I say, throwing the phrase away. Effortlessly. But also because I’m pretty bad to average at Italian and if I tried too hard it would get embarrassing.
“I-I can’t-.”
He’s in disbelief. He’s in awe. He’s falling in-love with me. I am softening his heart with olive oil and infusing it with the complicated bitter sweetness of garlic. I am interlacing his heart with spaghetti and topping it with red pepper flakes. I am-
My lover vomits a sorta black bile onto the flow. Onto my bare feet. And all I can say is….chunky. He looks at me with malice and zooms out of the room. And that’s why I shan’t try to date a vampire again!
It’s not because of the weird hours. Or the blood lust. [one more thing] It’s the “no garlic”.
Can’t we compromise? Can we talk about it? What about garlic salt? You really need me to shower and brush my teeth because I had one piece of garlic bread? I thought relationships were about COMMUNICATION. I thought we were more evolved than this. GOOOOOOOOOOD.
But honest, don’t make me choose sir. Because baby, I choose garlic.
I choose garlic in the morning. I choose garlic at night. Dressed up, dressed down. In sickness and in health. Cooked, raw, slices, diced, whole. I guess what I’m trying to say it…I’m taking garlic as a lover.
Garlic Musing 2 (Nora)
Chop the ends and peel. That’s what I had learned. Unclear from whom. Maybe osmosis.
But in that kitchen, on that day, using the flat of her knife, she crushed the whole clove. So that the aged, vegetal husk encapsulating the garlic - a purse, tear, bud- bursts from it’s seams.
“It’s faster,” she said.
Feels like a personal choice. Like how you prefer to undress.
But she was so Matter-of-fact. Always so sure. I hoped some would seep into me. Maybe osmosis.
However, not to “start shit”- but I don’t always think its time for a crush.
Sometimes it’s the time for a slice- to fraternize in the oil until it browns.
Sometimes it’s time for a dice- to disappear to the eye but haunt the whole dish.
Sometimes it’s to be squashed through the press- the Play-Dough pump of the cooking world.
Sometimes it’s to be left in its coat, roasted deeply- taking the time to get sweet and vulnerable.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you will keep it raw and whole and rub it on a crusty piece of crusty bread. Along with the guts of a tomato. And finish, with a drizzle of olive oil.
And in that moment you can dissociate to garlic heaven. Whatever route you take.
