So Justin bought me a pasta machine for Valentine’s Day. Because nothing says “I love you” like “Put more effort into my food, woman.” Just kidding. I asked for it. The pasta machine, that is. I said it looked easy. I was gift to make so much pasta by hand.
The lesson I learned today is that there’s a reason Italians drink a lot.
I won’t even confess his much time I spent making the pasta, rolling it out, and then cutting it. To be fair, once I find my groove rolling and cutting it, it started going quicker. Like, it went from turtle slow to turtle-on-a-skateboard slow. But I’m sure practice would make it better. I have yet to find a way to do it without coating myself, my entire kitchen, and my floor in flour though.
To celebrate homemade pasta, I made a homemade marinara. It was suppose to be a sweet roasted tomato marinara with an undertone of smoked bell peppers. Instead it tasted like bell peppers with an undertone of bell peppers. Neither Justin nor I like bell peppers. But, God love him, he rocked the “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all” rule for the most part, then tried telling me out was ok. Sometimes I marvel at that man. The marinara was awful, the pasta was soggy and disgusting, yet he choked down a plate full and even had me save the leftovers.
Somehow, Mitchell liked it. I think he ate more of my helping than I did!
I will persevere though. I’ll get the hang of this. Maybe. Hopefully.
Here’s a picture of the most disgusting thing I’ve ever made.
Updated to add: my second pasta attempt went much more smoothly. I used a different pasta recipe, but more importantly, I didn’t boil the life out of the pasta. And, of course, I used a different sauce.