One Christmas eve a few weeks back, I decided I was brave enough to tackle the year’s most challenging task: cook pasta a la pobre a la purpledsky.
Naturally, I was determined to overcome this most daunting task prepared and armed to the teeth. I had printed out the recipe weeks before, studied it until my eyes crossed and uncrossed, and grilled The Goddess with questions until, I’m quite sure, she was ready to choke me to my death.
Then, the big night came.
Because I was so prepared, I had to rush to the supermarket to buy the most important ingredient of all: the one with the tuyo in olive oil. So of course, the supermarket had ran out of stock.
I had almost given up when, by some stroke of luck (or pity, perhaps?), The Goddess lent me a bottle from her own kitchen. So then, I had no choice but to cook up a storm.
I had prepared the ingredients carefully, cooked the pasta per Goddess’ instructions (minus 2 minutes from the pasta box’s indicated cook time), and was ready to prepare the sauce. Since this was my first time, I knew I had to consult the recipe every step of the way. Then I realized the recipe was nowhere to be found!
There was no way this could be happening. Trying hard to stop from panicking, I looked and looked. At the kitchen table, at the sink, in my bedroom, the living room, even the bathroom! Finally, I found the recipe in the trashcan, all rumpled up and messy. Our house help had thought it was meant to be thrown away, maybe because of its sorry and disheveled look.
Armed with the recipe, I began preparing the sauce, in between shots of Bailey’s mint chocolate cream liquor shared with my brother, who was also whipping up something on his own.
The beautiful result:
The verdict: not really über-delish like The Goddess’, but edible. *big sigh of relief* Although the boyfriend did dare utter, “There seemed to be something missing.”
And then it hit me -
