Nine months and we are feeling courageous.
September’s pasta selection was left to my parents during their recent visit. “Rigatoni,” they challenged. “Rigatoni,” we accepted.
The first obstacle was forming ridged tubes without a pasta extruder. No worries. We rolled and pleated pasta with our gnocchi board like improvisational jazz performers in a sultry nightclub tossing the imperfect shapes onto a tray of sunlit semolina.
Our second hurdle was serving the finished dish, tossed in a light cream prosciutto sauce, to my afore-mentioned Italian parents. Knowing how they savor their pasta — several times a week with their outspoken inclinations — impressing our discerning judges was a bit worrisome.
A staccato rhythm of fork to plate filled the air. Tap, drag, push and pull. Rigatoni pasta.