Half-Life Pasta

A new "weird pasta" for a new place.

My sink and I are currently at war. I’ve been in Germany for a week, and all week the sink in the kitchen—lovely kitchen, economical kitchen, kitchen with a window that overlooks the garden—refuses to drain. I’ve got to ask for some help, and I will, but first I Googled what is Drano called in Germany, and wouldn’t you know it the answer is Drano. That’s just what the kitchen smells like, too, after I glugged some down the tubes and unsuccessfully tried to flush it with hot water. It’s still there, lazing in the mouth of the drain, gurgling at me.

I’ve had to be strategic in my washing-up, which means being strategic in my cooking. For the last four days I’ve been eating yogurt from the carton, sprinkled with muesli, and leftover sausage pasta from the bowl. Before that, it was beans.

When I was a kid—apologies if I’ve already told this story here—I went through a phase where my favorite game was called “packing for camp.” As my family performed in a magic show every Sunday, which you simply were not allowed to miss, summer camp always held the far-off glimmer of fantasy for me, never touched until I did precisely one week of ballet camp in the seventh grade. When I was little, I developed a game where I would stuff my Minnie Mouse suitcases with the flotsam of my life, and simulate the thrill of anticipation. A parent would set up two lines of dinner chairs in the living room and sit in the bus drivers’ position, front left. I remember the chairs in a row like Madeline’s classmates, I remember a blurry parent participating gamely, I remember standing with my luggage, ready to embark, and here my memory ends. I don’t think I ever played at learning archery. Packing was the game; it ended at the bus.

This obsession with preparation has remained, especially when the trip is large or exciting. Looking forward to these two months in Germany, I fussed over a Google spreadsheet; I decanted spices into deep-cleaned underglaze containers to begin my temporary pantry. I scanned a few easy cookbook recipes into the Adobe app on my phone. Upon arriving I successfully purchased groceries—a win, as I don’t speak German, though I’m trying in bits and pieces—and began the process of settling in. The first thing I cooked, and this won’t shock you unless you’re new here, was a can of beans, braised like this. Mine became significantly more slop-like than those in the photo, as I went hard on the mashing, but that made it all the better to spoon over toast. I went heavy on the garlic, too, and used a huge leek instead of onions, and sprinkled in some of the good paprika I brought with me, already wishing I’d brought more. Each time I heated up a portion I’d doctor it with more paprika, or more spinach, or a few torn slices of gouda, or a spoonful of what I think is crème fraîche but might just be really good cream cheese. The beans evolved in my fridge and on the plate, pushing through the bounds of boredom.

I ate my slop dutifully and happily for days, until there was maybe half a cup of it left, and I needed some help getting excited about finishing it. So I put on some pasta water to boil, minced a few cloves of garlic, and cooked them soft in a lot of oil, then stirred in a big squirt of tomato paste and a dash more paprika, and let it get brick-red before adding in the last of my bean slop. (Am I doing a good job of making this slop sound appealing? It was the most magical slop—an everlasting slop!)

Boil a few handfuls of pasta, let the sauce simmer and meld, eventually add some pasta water to turn what was once a chunky bean thing into a nearly-smooth sauce, flecked with a few lingering greens. I think you could do this with 70% of leftovers. It almost looked like vodka sauce, though I know the statement is something of an abomination. But it was thick and read and creamy and new. I tore in some more gouda—I’d never realized how melty gouda is—and found something I was quite proud of, a pasta that proved the half-life of a can of beans. I realized I’d been inspired by a tip in Kristen’s new book, where she recommends beefing up the flavor of a soup or stew by cooking some tomato paste in oil then adding it to the pot—a genius tip if there ever was one. Eventually I’d get things like parsley and black pepper for the kitchen, and soon I will hopefully be able to do the dishes there too, but for now I was happy with my scrappiness. It’s always a good day when you can add a new weird pasta to the repertoire.

More things to read:

+ Bryan Washington on pecan tarts
+ Rachel on screens and sleep
+ Jaya on the slippery labor slope of menu hacks
+ Why did nobody tell me about this book earlier????

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