More Than Boiling Water

Old Italian women who make pasta from scratch like nimble, little, gray-haired Tasmanian devils are worthy of mad respect. They have muscles that we pretty little city kids can never even dream of having. I discovered this the hard way...

Sue and I decided to undertake the culinary adventure of making pumpkin filled agnelotti, known in the States as tortellini. Because I had no idea what this entailed, I was thrilled to offer to help. We started by making the dough, out of flour and egg. That's it? Boy, was this going to be easy! As she measured the flour, Sue explained that in older, poorer times, pasta was made from flour and water, with egg pasta reserved for the wealthy, or for the poor masses on special occasions. Once the ingredients are mixed you must knead the dough by hand until it is thoroughly combined. I volunteered to do the honors.

Considering that the amount of liquid is almost negligible, kneading pasta dough by hand is on par with trying to manipulate cement that is mere moments from setting. It took me about twenty minutes of hand-cramping agony before Sue deemed the pasta dough "good enough." During the process I commented that I now understand why pasta making machines are such a godsend. She merely looked perplexed and commented, "Oh. They're really just for help with the rolling." Clearly she considered this the easy part. Hmmm.

While the dough was resting, Sue made an amazing savory filling of pumpkin, parmesan, oregano, and salt. It was so delicious that I could have eaten a bowl full of it all by itself. It is important to note that pumpkins here are closer to gourds than they are to the softer, apparently flavorless kind that we so gleefully carve into whimsical or scary expressions at Halloween. This means that cutting into one takes a team of three men, or perhaps, a machete. Peeling off the skin will involve at least an hour of your afternoon and in the aftermath, will render your potato peeler completely dull and useless. Then you must cook the pieces over low heat for at least half a century until they can be mashed or blended into a smooth paste. Plan a day, send the kids on a play date, unplug the phone, and grab a bottle of vino.

Bottle of vino in hand, we were now ready to begin the fun part. Ahem. Here's how it sounded.

Sue: "Now we roll the dough into a thin layer."
Me: After many minutes of what I believed to be a prime example of rolling pin mastery, "Done."
Sue: "Thinner."
Me: More rolling. Big grin. "There."
Sue: "Nope, thinner."
Me: More rolling, at a much slower speed. Small smirk. "Now?"
Sue: "Almost there."
Me: More rolling, if you can call it that. I was a bit distracted by trying not to cry. Slightly pitiful eyebrow raise.
Sue: "Perfect. Now (that your forearms feel like soggy noodles--my words, not hers) fold the dough over and do it again."

After a repeat performance, this time accompanied by whimpering and vigorous massaging of my arms and hands, I was told to do this one more time. The good news was that after this final agonizing effort (if you think I'm exaggerating, just give it a try some time), we got to fill them and shape them into tiny crescent shapes. This had to be done very quickly, before the dough got too dry to work with. Which essentially meant that my reprieve from rolling was extremely short lived. After a couple rounds of this arduous process, we took a break. I think maybe I just got really busy doing something very important when it came time to return to our project later in the day. I'm not sure, but I think that's what happened.

Because we used such a flavorful filling, we (which really means Sue, because again, I was busy with very important matters) decided on a simple sauce of sage-infused browned butter. It was delectable. I took the photo above to remember the meal in all its aesthetic splendor. I also wanted to document Sue's look of glee as she anticipates the first delicious bite. It really was worth the effort, and I must say, it is mighty gratifying to create something that requires so much in the way of blood, sweat, and tears. It definitely makes the meal taste even better. (I also highly recommend starting the project so that you can lay claim to the end result, and then busying yourself with important projects for the remainder of the afternoon). The down side to working this hard is that while I can usually take constructive criticism of my cooking, in a case such as this one, if you casually mention that you don't like pumpkin pasta after tasting it (as Sue's dad did), you're likely to end up with a lap full of it. Just so you know what you're in for should I ever be so ambitious as to attempt homemade pasta again, and you happen to be on the guest list. I wouldn't want you to have to wear your dinner home. I'm really looking out for you here.