Some weeks pick a theme without asking you. This one picked pasta. By Wednesday night I noticed I had three bowls in a row on the counter in various depths of ivory, and I said something out loud like, okay, we’re doing this. My husband, who loves pasta and does not investigate the provenance of any decision that leads to more pasta, said nothing.
Monday was cheese ravioli with chicken and mushrooms in a cream that was half from the pan-juices of the chicken and half from a splash of cream I added after thinking about it for a minute. Herbs from the window.
Tuesday the pasta rebellion showed up: I made a rice bowl instead - crispy chicken cutlet torn over rice with a fried egg and sautéed mushrooms, drizzled with dark sauce and sriracha. It was the kind of bowl you eat kind of standing up. Felt like the pasta would forgive me.
Wednesday was a penne with crumbled Italian sausage in a light cream, which is the kind of dinner my grandmother would have called something to tide you over and then eaten three bowls of.
Thursday was pesto cavatappi with a lot of basil I’d finally cut back because the plant was getting unruly. Chicken, because we had chicken. A slab of rosemary focaccia that was more butter than focaccia at the end because I kept tearing off pieces while I was plating.
Friday was angel hair under a mushroom cream - I’d had enough tomatoes for a week, apparently, and wanted something pale. More parmesan than was strictly needed. A little chive on top.
Saturday I made an actual salmon, over creamed spinach and a scoop of wild rice, because you can’t just eat pasta for seven nights running and call that cooking. Or maybe you can. I won’t tell.
Six plates, five of them swimming in cream of some kind. An embarrassment of riches, really.
