Aglio e olio

The other day, I cooked something. For real. With ingredients and tomatoes and things. It was pretty exciting, despite a few minor hiccups.

For instance, my grasp of the recipe was not so firm. I had it explained to me by an Italian Friend, but she is from down south and generally lops off the last syllable (or more) of most of her words, which makes her a bit of a challenge to follow at times. So all I really retained from the conversation was that it was called 'pasta aglio e olio'. Which kind of leads you to believe that you need pasta, aglio (garlic), and olio (oil). But no. It is all a nasty practical joke.

I googled it and it turns out you also need peperoncino. I don't even know what that is, but the point is, I didn't have any. It's okay, though. I kept my cool and decided to substitute with tomatoes. Because they were in the fridge, and, anyway, tomatoes are red, peperoncino kind of sounds like it might be red... so, yeah. Whatever.

Another issue is that spaghetti-shaped pasta (bucatini, if you're really interested) is difficult to cook. Because unless you own a pot the size of my entire kitchen, there is no obvious way to get the suckers actually into the pot. I called my mother for advice. I don't generally call my parents to be bailed out of whatever difficulties I get myself into, so I figured it would be permissible on a one-off basis. She was silent for a moment. "Well, you just put them in. The end inside the water will go soft and the rest will fall in."

Oh.

So, anyway, it all worked out charmingly. The result wasn't actually delicious or anything, but it was edible. Which, all things considered (namely, my history with cooking), is quite a nice surprise.

My roommate arrived home just as I was sitting down to eat. This was actually optimal timing, because the pasta was still steaming impressively and all manner of cooking instruments were lying about attesting to my efforts, but I hadn't actually started tackling the awkward issue of how to eat the pasta with at least a minimal amount of grace.

"Ciao!" said I as she poked her head into the kitchen.

"Ah! Ma... you made the sauce with fresh tomatoes? Ah. Brava! Ti stai italianizzando." ('Ah' is meant to denote a breathy little sound of surprise and shock, presumably due to the fact that the apartment was still standing and nothing was even the least bit burnt.) She retreated, perhaps not trusting her luck any further.

I glanced down at my pasta. And then at my boots (which are sexy and Italian and black and make very satisfying clacking sounds at work), my more or less reasonably ironed shirt, and obligatory black sweater (because in winter you wear black, period). For a very brief instant, I felt cool and capable and smooth and un pochino italianizzata.

I smiled.