Pasta Supreme

If the kitchen were a horse...

... then I'd be on the other side of the steeplechase fence, covered in mud. And indeed: the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the grass is green. But I'm covered in mud. What happened?

And where's that bloody horse?

During the past few weeks we have resorted to subsistence cooking. Out with it! That's right: we've been eating grass!

Close enough, at least. Oat cereal, wheat cereal, breads and grains of various shapes and sizes. Like horses on a lean winter diet. And tonight it's come to a head. Tonight-- the dishes are still here on the table, next to me, reeking of processed garlic-- we resorted to our last line of defense. The last straw, if you will.

We call it "pasta supreme." This dish hast the honor of representing the nadir of culinary minimalism. The name itself bears a distinguished pedigree: it was coined by my old friend Dave, who, some years ago, earned two PhDs from Harvard. One was in Physics; the other was in the History of Science. This is, needless to say, no simple feat.

The beauty of "pasta supreme" is that it is.

Simple or no, let's break it down and rehearse the steps. Simplicity, after all, is a dish best served lukewarm.

First, boil some water.

"How much is some?" Dave would ask his roommates, as they offered to pass along their culinary knowledge to this fledgling scientific genius. "Some," they'd say, "is roughly two quarts. Half a pan. Not that one. The big pan."

Next, as the water is heating, salt the water. This does not so much help the water boil as to salt the pasta. Consider it a brine. It saves time.

As soon as the water comes to a boil-- aw, hell, you can cheat: as soon as the water looks like it might threaten to boil-- add some pasta. "Some" can be anywhere between half a box and 7/8 of the box. By no means should anyone finish off the entire box. How wasteful! Think of all the starving children! Besides, it's imperative that you leave a remainder that comes just shy of yielding another full portion.

Boil the pasta until it foams over and leaves a disturbing gray film over the surface of the stove. Wiggle the pan so as to suggest that you've made an earnest effort of it, at the very least.

Wait until the pasta is just about al dente. As a rule of thumb, "pasta supreme" works best if you crack a few jokes about al dente along the way. E.g. "That Al Dente, he owes me money, that bastard," or "That Dente should have quit after he finished the Purgatorio." Nobody will laugh at these jokes. But it will help pass the several tiresome minutes of "cooking."

When the pasta is ready, drain it in a colander in the sink. Or else drain the water by pressing the lid tightly to the top of the pan and leaving a gap. The latter method is preferable if you're on a diet.

Return the pasta to the warm pot and add some spaghetti sauce. Wondrously, the residual heat of the pan and the pasta will warm the sauce. (n.b.: it cannot, however, "spruce up" a long- forgotten jar of sauce left for weeks in the back of the refrigerator).

Pasta supreme is now ready to serve! Now, if you want to get all sophisticated, you can add black pepper, olive oil, even some hot pepper flakes. Or even some Parmesan cheese. But the principle is the simplicity of the dish. Occam's razor, if you will.

If you're cooking for one, hell, you don't need to sully a single plate.

If you're cooking for two, well then, light some candles, amico!