Lessons Learned
From 35,000 feet above the Canadian Arctic, I am reflecting on my first week of pasta-making. Besides the fact that my 4-year old has announced she’s ‘tired of pasta’, my half-dozen attempts have resulted in satisfying results, and a few lessons learned.
Such as, ambiance is everything. (Actually this is probably better described as an old lesson, relearned.) I’ve found that the entire dough-making and rolling-out process is more pleasurable and relaxing by candlelight, so now the first step is to light the two hurricane candles and place them on the table with the eggs and flour. Does that sound contrived and ridiculous? Maybe, but I don’t care. Literally taking the spotlight off the process discourages me from inspecting my work too closely, and instead the focus transfers to the touch.
And believe me, pasta wants to be touched. Beyond the obvious kneading, pasta benefits from much handling during the rolling-out process. Initially I was focused on simply holding the pasta properly as I fed it into the machine, and catching it after it rolled out. I was paranoid about not having a third hand to run the rank as I fed and caught simultaneously. (A blogger on Chowhound claims she learned in culinary school to attach the two ends and create a pasta fan-belt, which you only need one hand to juggle while cranking until it’s done.) But as George pointed out, there is time in between each pass when the pasta can be stretched by hand, spread across the table, flipped over, and smoothed and brushed. All this touching facilitates the gradual but critical drying of the dough so that by final pass, you produce the thinnest, smoothest sheet of pasta yet. It also ensures you are carefully monitoring that drying process and noticing the change in consistency after each run. Embracing this approach last night, I found that all this dough-handling also facilitates intense bonding between pasta maker and pasta. Does it sound like I’ve lost it? Are you asking yourself, ‘We are still talking about pasta, right?’ I’ve got to say, I feel not an insignificant investment in and affection toward the dough that began as nothing more than flour and eggs on my candlelit table. Granted, eggs are remarkable –I don’t know how chickens do it, everyday no less—but if my dough is looking promising at the rolling-out stage, it means I have already done several things right, and pride is in order. Besides; a clinical, sterile, mechanized approach can not possibly elicit remarkable results with anything as needy as pasta.
I’m off to Gothenburg for the week, creating a forced hiatus from pasta-making 101, and giving my daughter an apparently much-needed break from my little project. As we fly toward Sweden , I sense the object of my obsession shifting from producing perfect pasta to consuming the perfect dessert that is served at the Hotel Avalon…
