The Pasta Water Thing

September twelfth. I registered for this class the same way I do most things, a tab opened, closed, reopened, and then one Wednesday evening when I was too tired to talk myself out of it, I paid the fee and closed the tab for good. A beginner cooking class at the community center. Six sessions, Thursday evenings. I showed up not knowing what to expect and walked in slightly too early, which meant I had to stand at a stainless steel counter with a small notebook and nowhere to put my hands.

I have been cooking for myself, actually cooking, not just assembling things from a box, since at least 2018 when Simone made an offhand comment about one new recipe a week and I took it personally in the most productive way possible. I have a standing order. I have a preferred salt. I thought I knew what I was doing. And then the instructor, in the first twenty minutes of the first session, mentioned in passing how much salt should actually go into pasta water. The amount. The specific quantity. Said it like it was obvious, like everyone knew this, moved on without pausing. I wrote it down. I have thought about it every day since.

taking notes like the test is tomorrow

The thing I keep coming back to is not the pasta water specifically, it's the fact that I had been doing something my own way, confidently, for six years, and it took a stranger in a teaching kitchen forty-five seconds to quietly update my operating system. I didn't feel embarrassed. I felt, weirdly, relieved. Like there is still so much I don't know yet, which means there is still so much to find out. That feels like the right reason to sign up for something. The budget sheet is still on the kitchen table. The class fee cleared the paper number without drama. Both things feel like they belong in the same sentence, even if I'm not sure how yet.

actually paying attention for once in my life