Double Double Toil and Trouble

1994. January. The first time I made pasta. I was three.

The kitchen floor was dated linoleum. White laminate counter tops. A small square room,

with a narrow counter on three walls. A wide island extended into the centre of the space. I am an

only child, and our only pet was a standoffish cat. Whether I was avoiding him, playing by my

parents while they made meals, or renovating a-la Bob Vila and tearing up the horrible flooring,

I spent lots of time in the heart of our red brick home.

My parents owned a pasta extruder. We would work around the small machine; Sad

playing in the background. Changeable caps provided various possibilities: Spaghetti, Fusilli,

Linguini. The extruders auger would rotate, mixing the dough. Egg, water, and flour. I would

add an egg/water mixture, until the consistency was right, then flip a switch. The auger would

change direction, and the simple dough would be extruded. My father would guide my hand as I

used a table knife to slice the noodles as they squirted out, like Playdough out of a 90s hair-cut

doll. My mother would rotate a Portmerion plate below my small hand. The pasta would dry

slightly. Into salted water. The sweet smell of onions, ground beef, and garlic cooking. The sizzle

would dull as a jar of sauce was added. Noodles into a colander. I would lean over the sink to

feel the steam on my small, fat, face. Parmesan cheese completed what my family called

Spaghetti Bolognese. I realize now: it was not.

2017. January. My mother and I made pasta again. I am 25. The tables have turned. This

time I would be guiding.

The process of making pasta begins with the arduous task of finding Italian doppio zero

flour. Its a finely ground durum wheat. Unlike cake and pastry flours, its protein content is

around 12%. These two details - fine grind and higher protein content - allow for the smoothness
and elasticity needed for proper pasta. My mother and I decided on Tagliatelle, with a Bolognese

Ragu. I woke up that Sunday at 2 oclock, very hungover. Just in time to start cooking.

The sauce was simple. My mother refuses to use anything other than a paring knife, so I

diced an onion, a stalk of celery, and a carrot. Olive oil, salt, pepper, and my grandfathers

wooden cooking spoon. Its large, and beautifully darkened by years of use. The pop of onions

hitting a hot pan. Ground beef, ground pork, and chopped pancetta. Meat browned, we added

chicken stock and tomato paste. Up to a boil, then down to a simmer for two hours. Time for the

noodles.

Tagliatelle is made with egg dough: a northern Italian technique. In the south, eggs were

traditionally more expensive, so their pasta was made with simply flour and water. Our egg

dough, however, didnt worry about the price of eggs. Two firmly packed cups of 00 flour, a

large pinch of salt, olive oil and

Jesus, I muttered. 18-30 egg yolks.

Flour onto the granite counter. A heap ten inches in diameter. A well in the centre, with

1/4 inch of flour at its bottom, filed with the yolks.

Breach! My mother sounding like the Enterprises Chief Engineer.

I whisked the yolks, avoiding the flour at the bottom of the well. I need you to get the

wall integrity back up! My mother watched STNG while she was pregnant with me, and I would

wiggle along to the theme song. Star Trek and Pasta have always been part of our relationship.

By some miracle, the walls held. I incorporated more and more flour along with the

remaining yolks. I began to kneed the dough as my mother stirred the sauce. The kneading
realigns the gluten strands in the dough, increasing its elasticity. Without letting it set before

rolling however, it would be too springy to hold its flattened shape. We wrapped the bright

yellow orb in cling-wrap and let it rest for half an hour.

I sliced a small piece off the orb of dough and rolled it out, making a narrow oval. My

mother operated the hand crank of our pasta roller as I fed the dough through three increasingly

thinner settings. My mother gestured toward the cookbook, again.

Read this, she said, as if testing three-year-old me.

Lay the sheet of pasta flat. Measure the opening of your pasta maker, less two fingers.

This is the ideal width of your pasta sheet. Using this guide, fold the pasta sheet four times, and

rotate it 90 degrees. Flatten the pasta with a rolling pin. What was once the first edge, will now

pass through last. I looked at her. What?

I dont get it. We were puzzled.

Do they mean 180, I offered. If first is last, that doesn't sound like 90 degrees.

It looks like a 90 degree turn here.

Thats way more than four layers!

We were stumped. A tenured professor, and her genius son couldn't understand

instructions with pictures. The pasta was drying. It was almost time for the next stage of the

sauces preparation. We frantically re-read the paragraph.

At least four! It can be more layers! My mother had saved the day. We also decided the

sentence about what was first will be last was utter nonsense.
 We followed the newly deciphered instructions. To achieve the required thickness of 1/16

inch, we ran the sheet through six increasingly thinner stages, three times for each stage. The

pasta stretched from a few inches long to two feet. Cut into one foot lengths, dusted heavily with

semolina flour, and stacked under a damp cloth. We repeated this process a further six times,

after adding a cup of milk into the sauce. The cloth was removed to let the pasta dry slightly. We

poured ourselves a glass of wine, and waited for the pasta to achieve a leathery texture and a

slightly darker hue, while remaining pliable.

The water was brought to a boil, and salt and a handful of semolina flour was added. The

recipe suggested 1/4 cup of salt in 5 quarts of water, which seemed excessive, but I deferred to

the book. The stacks of pasta were folded like letters, creating three layers. I quickly cut them

into 1/4 inch wide noodles, shaking off the excess flour, before dropping them into the water. My

mother moved the sauce into a large pan. 1/2 a cup of butter and freshly grated Parmigiano

Reggiano. The sauce should be thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, but still liquid enough

that if the pan were scraped the sauce would flow back together. The fatty, roughly chopped

pancetta rendered beautifully, adding fat content which bound the flavours. We opted for a spicy

cut, so the rich meaty aroma tingled slightly as I inhaled. The sauce was perfect: rich, without

being overbearing. Tagliatelle, just under el dente, into the pan. Fresh noodles only absorb

flavour as they are cooked, so finishing them this way absorbs some of the emulsified fats of the

meat.

In northern Italy, Tagliatelle is the noodle by which a pasta chef is judged. Their wide

and flat shape is such that a poor dough cannot be hidden by sauce. Ours, other than being a

touch salty, were perfect. Smooth, yet firm: the hardy pasta supporting the complex profile of the

slowly-braised meat sauce. Wide and substantial, but delicate enough to be twirled.
 These noodles are more authentic, the sauce more complex, but after two decades, we

still are held together by the same meal. We don't have fat or gluten to bind our elastic

relationships, but pasta, especially when its made with love in the heart of our home, will do the

trick. And a little Star Trek cant hurt.