FODDERBLOG: SOMETIMES YOU’VE JUST GOTTA COOK

I arrive home at about 8 PM, tired, hungry. TLC is studying, and looks up brightly as I walk in. “I thought I’d wait for you to cook,” she says. Rats. No getting away with a bowl of cereal tonight then.

Quick and lazy cooking it is. Water goes on the boil for pasta. I gaze at the contents of the fridge, utterly uninspired. It’s that close to being a jar of something over spaghetti.

But no. My love has waited for me. Her patience deserves rewarding. I dig out garlic, a yellow pepper, and some cherry tomatoes. I chop the pepper, halve the tomatoes, and simply squash the garlic with the flat of a knife so it stays whole. The garlic and peppers are sweated gently in some olive oil until golden. When they’re soft, the tomatoes go in. Lots of salt and pepper. I squish the toms about a bit, and let the whole mess cook down while I chuck spaghetti into the now-boiling pasta water.

The sauce smells good, but looks a bit dry. I’d throw some wine in, but there’s no wine open, and I won’t open a bottle of wine just for a midweek supper, especially as with the day I’ve had I’d probably just end up drinking the lot. A splash of water suffices, mixing in with the juice coming out of the tomatoes.

Salad. There’s cos leaves, and some celery, which get shredded together. A bit blah as an accompaniment, until I come across some pine nuts kicking around the nether reaches of the larder. (Oh, alright, cupboard I put food in.) I toast the pine nuts. Gently, gently. In a hot dry pan, the little sods will burn in moments. Finally, in a moment of domestic epiphany, I remember we have pears. I chop one, and add it into the salad. I scatter over the hot, fragrant pine nuts.

Pasta’s done. Drain it, sauce over the top, moosh it together. Salad on the side, dressed with a simple vinegarette (yes, alright, out of a bottle). Parmesan grated over the lot.

Done.

You know what? It was the nicest thing I’ve eaten all week. The pasta was sweet and luxuriant. The salad was crunchy and vibrant, almost like a riff on a Waldorf. I get the “Yummy, honey!” seal of approval from TLC. I’m pleased.

Next time, though, I’ll crack a bottle to have with.