Noodles and Neighbors

Growing up in the Clark household, our pasta choices were confined to three basic shapes: spaghetti, elbow macaroni, and shells, with the occasional ravioli. We kept things simple, although I had a secret and unexplainable longing for spaghetti that would be somehow threaded though macaroni. I would have to wait until I was married for an indulgent wife to come up with that one. Alas, the combination was underwhelming.

But today, the choices are staggering. If you visit www.thenibble.com/reviews/main/pastas/glossary.aspI, just the list of 'C's' includes campanelle, candele, cannerozzetti, capelli, casarelli, castellane, cassuli, cavaturi, cellentani, chitarra, conchiglie, cozzetti, and the list goes on and on. I sometimes wonder if there is a secret laboratory in Italy that invents new shapes each year. If not, there should be. I simply cannot get enough of the good stuff.

I am also something of a pasta purist. My preferred way to eat spaghetti is “al burro,” which means, simply, with butter. I add salt, pepper, freshly grated parmesan cheese and a little basil, if it’s in season. And, of course, it has to be “al dente.” Few culinary tragedies can ruin my appetite as quickly as over-cooked, bloated pasta. In the times when I was single and living on a shoestring budget, it was fortuitous that my favorite thing to eat was also just about the cheapest.

But is it possible to have too much pasta? From a waistline standpoint, perhaps. But from a desire standpoint, I didn’t used to think so. That is, until I had a chance to test my love for pasta, back when I was 10 years old and living on South Knoll Road.

We had a very tightly-knit neighborhood in those days and we kids spent a good deal of time socializing, playing and eating at each other’s houses. So it was nothing unusual that I would be at the Rattos' house for lunch one Sunday after church. When lunch came, we naturally joined in and because the Rattos were Italian, we had pasta. I ate a big plate of spaghetti and didn’t say ‘no’ to another helping. Mrs. Ratto made good pasta.

Later that day, the activity moved up to my friend, Mike Baroni’s, house, where they usually had an early Sunday supper. An Italian family, another spaghetti meal. I ate my fill, and though Mike’s mother, Rita, gave me a puzzled look when I declined a second serving, I was feeling pretty smug about scoring two pasta meals in the same day. That was before I suddenly realized I had fallen afoul of the standard protocol for eating at someone else’s home: I had neglected to call my mother first. A chill ran up my greedy spine.

Usually, the call was a matter of formality. A ‘yes’ meant the adults could have a quiet evening without the kids. Sometimes, the call involved subtle investigation to determination what, exactly, were the various dining options, “Mom,” we would start, “I was just wondering what are we having for dinner tonight?” Admittedly, it lacked subtlety and felt like asking the waiter to recite the evening’s “specials,” but it occasionally helped us avoid such atrocities as Liver with Onions, and the equally heinous Cauliflower Casserole.

However, this time, I had tripped myself up. It was too late to make the call and I would have to take potluck, whatever that might be. Soon, I was the recipient of a missive to head home right away, which I did, to - you guessed it - yet another pasta dinner. Gulp. As I stared at the heaping plate placed before me by my mother (after all, she had cooked my favorite), I had to dig deep to find the room in my stomach for yet another load of noodles. I did my best, and then shuffled off to my bedroom, where I lay flat on my back and bemoaned my fate. They say that a ravenous dog has the capacity to literally eat himself to death. All I can say is that I came very close that Sunday.