I knew it was time.
But I hesitated, I asked for a second opinion. A third opinion was requested. I was bidden to wait. I knew I had to act fast. But I conceded.
And minutes later, as I poured scalding water and 4 pounds of penne through a plastic colander into the sink, flecks of water scorching my forearms, it was too late. The elusive goal, pasta al dente, was lost forever, these were just beyond that magical realm.
The salad was lettuce, vegetables, olive oil, and gallons of good intention, but balsamic vinegar, that elixir of salads, was missing in action.
It went in as a pool of cold dough. It was supposed to become a cupcake. Or a muffin. Or a cake. Or something baked. But out of the oven it returned, nothing but a pool of warm dough burned around the edges.
Yet somehow, good company, the best I could ask, this pastiche of students thrown into a jar, shaken thoroughly, and poured out in the heart of Rome, “A family, if only for tonight” as one quipped, and it was fine dining that the most expensive restaurant in Rome could never hope to offer.
Men in the kitchen:
No dining room in sight, we eat on tables squeezed together in the hallway:
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