light pasta for heavy moments

There’s a lot of “worst parts” about grief, so I hesitate to throw that word around lightly. But there are some that are a bit more of a kick in the ass than others.

Ranking high on my list of least favorites are the unexpected milestones of pain. Not familiar? Let me elaborate: these are the moments that hit you like a ton of bricks as a “milestone” but aren’t things you realized ahead of time would be significant.

For example… Christmas? You knew that was going to be rough. The first dentist appointment without your mom, who texted you the tooth emoji every time you got a cleaning as an adult? That’s an unexpected milestone that will leave you crying and holding the hand of the hygienist.

I had one of these last week. It came out of nowhere and sucker-punched me in the stomach before I even had a chance to react. Rude, right?

My uncle was the ultimate live music guy. I’m telling you, the man was an expert in bands before they’ve even cracked the Rolling Stone radar, that’s how good he was. I could never beat him to the punch, and he delighted in sending me recommendations, telling me stories about concerts, and swapping photos of the different acts we were seeing.

Music and food have a lot in common, in my opinion - especially in their ability to connect us and in their unique way of representing love. Just as a certain dish can instantly transport you to the place, time, and people that surrounded it, so too can a certain song evoke thoughts of a location, memory - or person.

Last week, I went to my first concert since my uncle’s passing, and though it wasn’t a band I’d ever discussed with him, it was a) live music, his favorite; and b) a band that he would have loved. To be clear - I’m sure he already knew about them, I’d just never asked. And like an avalanche, I realized so much at once while standing in a small Portland music hall: I wanted to text him about the show. I couldn’t. I would never be able to again. I didn’t recommend this band to him. It probably didn’t matter, he probably knew already. But what if he didn’t? I’d never be able to talk music with him again. We’d never meet in San Diego for concerts like we’d planned.

I’m losing out on so much time I was promised.

For a minute, the pain felt so intense I was certain it would never abide. And then it was gone - because that’s how grief settles, of course. It’s forever in your chest and roars louder on occasion, before curling back up for a nap.

And then you go home, and you make a comforting dish - a pasta that’s fresh, and light, which is important, because you don’t want heavy food that will settle like a weight in your chest. There’s already a weight there making it hard to swallow.

Keep it light, and fresh, and let the flavors speak for themselves. Take your time in crafting it, and then enjoy the simplicity. Remember to smile. He would have loved this dish as much as the concert.

LIGHT PASTA FOR HEAVY MOMENTS

fresh (homemade!) pasta - I picked some up from Cooperativa
4 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
olive oil
freshly cracked black pepper
good salt (I used black lava salt)
fresh parm
pine nuts

+literally whatever else you want to add

Set a pot of heavily salted water to boil and cook the pasta according to instructions.

Slice the garlic in whisper-thin cuts. Heat a small amount of olive oil in a pan over medium-high heat, and, when a drop of water in the oil sizzles, lightly fry the garlic slices, flipping to ensure both sides are golden. Pay attention: this only takes about 30 seconds and they burn easily.

Plate the pasta: drizzle with ample olive oil, crack pepper over it, sprinkle some salt, add a dusting of parm, pine nuts, and your garlic.

Enjoy.

I served with the very excellent pistachio-crusted salmon from Salad Freak.