The Pasta Experiment (A Crime Scene, Technically)

There is flour in places flour has no business being. I found some on the cabinet door above the stove. I don't know how. I wasn't even near that cabinet.

I've been in a strange mood this week, first week of classes, new routine settling in, the particular tiredness of sitting in a room full of people you don't know yet and trying to look like you've always known how to take notes on a legal pad. I got home tonight and instead of doing anything sensible I decided I was going to make pasta. From scratch. No box, no jar. I'd watched my aunt do it exactly once, about four years ago, and I figured that counted as a tutorial.

It does not count as a tutorial.

i did it. kind of. mostly.

The dough was either too sticky or too stiff for the entire middle portion of this experiment, the rolling was genuinely a workout (maybe that's why runners make pasta? free arm day?), and the cutting was charitable at best, my 'fettuccine' ranged from thin ribbon to basically a noodle lasagna sheet. But. I boiled it. I put butter and salt on it. And it tasted like pasta. Real pasta that I made with flour and eggs and whatever stubborn refusal to read the instructions all the way through lives in my DNA.

Something about the first week of school always makes me want to try something I've never tried before. Like if I can be a beginner at something voluntarily, the places I'm a beginner involuntarily feel less embarrassing. Anyway. Pasta. Friday. Highly recommend being bad at something on purpose sometimes.