Pasta carbonara is an evening dish
for one. It’s a lazy food, a salty saucy indulgence. It cuts straight to the
yolk, to the fat, to the part that I want and I want it all to myself. I read
once in a Nigella Lawson cookbook that pasta carbonara is a food for
post-coital lovers. I recalled this as I relaxed into my bed, bowl of carbonara
in hand, and proceeded to slurp down every noodle in that greedy fashion which
every lonely soul can surely recall.
Nigella, maybe it is lovers’ food.
But I’m going to argue that pasta carbonara tastes best alone, without sharing
and without a shred of dignity. Should the peppery yolk sauce escape mouth and
dribble down my lip, I’ll lick it away unabashedly.
Perhaps this imagery is not
encouraging anybody to date me or spend time with my pasta or myself.
More for me.
