What’s In My Mouth

Last week, I had dinner with an old friend who was visiting from L.A.  We ducked into Zoe’s in Belltown to escape the stormy weather, and over a cocktail of the same name (the ‘Stormy Weather’ arrived complete with an inside-out paper umbrella garnish, very clever) we were discussing our favorite dance forms.  I lamented to my friend that I would love to learn Tango, but the few times I have tried classes, it was so painful to be a beginner again, virtually every partner –no matter how lackluster– more skilled than myself.  My friend answered with a little advice I had given her years before, which of course I don’t remember.  She said, “Well, I’ve never forgotten when I came to visit you in Spain, and after taking my first flamenco class I was feeling discouraged by being the newest –and worst– dancer in the group, and when I said I might not go back, you said, ‘If you never allow yourself the discomfort of starting something new, the rest of your life is limited to the skills and abilities you currently possess.  Which is fine, of course, if you’re o.k. with that…’”

Thank God for friends with good memories.  I have no recollection of making that statement, nor even really being in a place in my life where these kinds of thoughts so easily percolated to the surface.  But last week, the concept stuck with me.   Everyone agrees that continuing to learn and grow in life is desirable.  But hand-in-hand with that growth comes the discomfort of being a beginner, noticably less comfortable for adults I might add.   You can’t have one without the other.

The following day on my ferry commute home, I relayed this story to three friends, and before the boat landed on Vashon we spontaneously pledged to each learn or try something new in 2008.  Here was my chance: to finally become the Tango dancer I suspect is lurking inside my soul.  But a quick reality check with myself told me what I already knew; my home/work/motherhood/travel schedule would not readily permit a weekly evening dance class.  My ’something new’ would have to be homegrown.  Which led me to…

Pasta making.  I’m not sure how or why my mind immediately made that leap, but it did.  Maybe it’s the Italian-Argentinean cultural connection.  And by the way, I don’t mean, learn-how-to-make-the-dough-and-roll-it-out, which, as my ferry friends immediately pointed out, would take, like, a day.  I mean, perfect the process.  Hone a touch that elicits ethereal ribbons of pasta.  A la Justin Neidermeyer of Pian Pianino.  I want to make pasta that makes you groan when you eat it.

I should probably confess here, for anyone that doesn’t already know this, my husband makes great pasta.  Which means I will have an in-house coach.  Subsequently, I have already participated in countless ravioli-stuffing and tortellini folding sessions.  But it’s kind of like frosting the cake: you can take credit for how it looks, but not how it tastes.  I want to own the entire process. 

Back to that in-house coach: I also thought it a semi-healthy idea to choose a pursuit that involved learning something from my husband.  I suspect he and I are not unique in finding that being instructed by one’s spouse also does not occur easily and without discomfort.  (And if we are unique in this regard, you can keep that little secret to yourself.)  

So there you have it:  sprinkled between new restaurant discoveries, I’ll try to document my experience of what I hope will be mastering the art of pasta making.  And I invite you to consider joining me in committing to a new pursuit in 2008.  “Anyone who stops learning is old, whether at twenty or eighty.”  ~Henry Ford