22 April 2012

Wherein the author's Italian heritage takes on some relevance

The other day I made pasta and red sauce entirely from scratch. As in the stuff going into it was crushed tomatoes, olive oil, onions, garlic, basil, oregano, salt, sugar, flour and eggs. It was a lot of work. It took hours and I got two meals out of it. Granted I had to throw away about a third of the dough due to an unfortunate pasta-getting-caught-in-the-spaghitti-cutter incident (some dipshit forced the attachment on upside-down), but still, low payoff. Delicious pasta, hilarious incompetence, low payoff.

I think you have to make a lot of pasta for it to be worthwhile, which makes me wonder how many generations ago my ancestors were regularly making their own pasta. My parents definitely weren't, and I'm not really sure my grandparents were either.

And going this many generations up, we enter the hall of legends of hard-working stock who worked all day in the paper factory or the chemical plant and then worked on digging the foundation to their house in the new world. Meanwhile their wives would slave over a hot stove making sauce and roll out sheets of wonderful-tasting pasta in anticipation of the breadwinner getting home. I think.

So basically I'm spending my spare time as a 1920s Italian housewife? The worst Italian housewife?

Mama mia!

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