A Recipe for Friendship

GRUNION BY CAROLINE SMITH

A RECIPE FOR FRIENDSHIP

A POWER STRONGER THAN LOVE; ENCHANTED PASTA

The semester is flying by, and just to get through finals you’ll need a few friends to accompany you. This dish is the perfect way to lure some unsuspecting strangers into being your new pals. I learned how to make pasta from my mother and grandmother. They made pasta with centuries of practice: eyeballing the perfect amount of water, stirring the pasta just enough, making sauce with dense and hand-crafted meatballs. The dish is simple, yet perfect every time. And yet, at some point the little bird must spread its wings and fly away, learn its own lessons and find what it’s good at. The little bird has to learn how to make pasta themselves and add their own twist. The little bird also has to figure out how to keep the demons inside from winning. The little bird also has to figure out if it is saying “Yippee!” unironically or not. And I was that little bird.

I first improved my pasta making skills when I started working at Giuseppe’s, a five-star, high end restaurant in the Upper West Side. I was there tutoring a certain actress on Broadway, teaching her how to read. Due to complications, I decided it was time for a career change. Down on my luck, I was sitting at the bar in Giuseppe’s, drinking my go-to, a Shirley Temple with eight extra maraschino cherries on the side, when the bartender, Luigi, started talking to me and told me about a job opening in the kitchen. I perked up and he brought the one and only Giuseppe out. He asked, “Can you cook pasta?” “Yes,” I said and he hired me on the spot. I got to work that night. I could go on about my antics and friends I made in the kitchen. Each of us had our dark pasts, and it took time for us all to open up to each other. Of course, there was that time that Antony got into some trouble and he asked me to help scare some guys off. We spent a lot of money on a suit and a big fake wedding, but I was intimidating enough. Fun times.

But I also learned much under the mentorship of Giuseppe. He taught me to understand the pasta. Feel what it feels. “Caroline,” he would say, “you got to treat the pasta as your friend, only then can it be a source of friendship.” And so, when I would leave work, I would take a bag of pasta with me to my house. We would watch movies together, gossip, do karaoke, all the fun stuff. Then the next day at work, we would say a sorrowful goodbye as I boiled them for others. But their sacrifice is a noble one, for the pasta that has been your friend is the best tasting of all. We once had a critic come in, who Giuseppe feared a bad review from. I took special care to befriend the pasta that week. We drove around, saw the sights, got caught in a lie and bonded as we were on the run. That pasta was the best I ever made, and the critic loved it. He wrote, “That food was so good. I cried. Once I finished eating I thought it impossible to ever feel that full again. Giuseppe’s protege is sure to rock the food world with her witchcraft.” That night, everyone in the kitchen tried my signature drink with extra maraschino cherries on the side, and they all agreed that I was really smart and really cool.

But all good things come to an end. Schmanton Schmego gave me an idea that I had to pursue: trying witchcraft on my pasta. On my last day, Giuseppe gave me a special engraved pasta spoon, and said, “Go now, and make new friends.” I found out that the engraving was a secret message, which took me to a cemetery, which led me to a grave, where I had to dig up a map, which led me to an ancient witch, with a name so ancient and cursed that I just called her “Girl.” I also just forgot to ask her name and then it got too awkward for me to ask again. Girl showed me the ways of witchcraft. I learned how to enchant tomatoes and bring them to life so that they too could become friends with the pasta and unite their flavors. Was one of those flavors also lizard legs? Maybe! Would they be health code violations? Absolutely! But you couldn’t argue with the results.

My pasta was now to die for. Literally. I might have started a war among witch covens. But that’s besides the point. I had to leave Girl before I grew too powerful. It was awkward giving her a thank you card where I addressed it to “You Girl!” As I was leaving, she shouted to me some kind of warning about the average mortal and my pasta, and I should have just turned around and asked her to repeat it, but I had my fist up in the air like the guy in “The Breakfast Club” and I didn’t want to ruin the moment.

And so, once I returned to Long Beach, I was determined to make friends with my newfound pasta abilities. I invited people I knew in passing over, I befriended my pasta, I enchanted so many tomatoes, I spent a whole day in the LA River looking for lizards. When the evening came I was ready. I made the pasta like I had done a thousand times before, imbued with magic and love, like my mother before me and hers before her. As I played “Autumn Nintendo Music” for these strangers that I was determined to befriend, I made the best pasta I have ever done.

When I was done I scooped out servings using the spoon from Giuesseppe’s from so long ago. My guests took their first bite and were silent. Then their second and third, still silent. I began to worry that Girl’s warning might have been this, that the magic would not work on the average person. But I was proven wrong. They were silent, they said, because it was so good they had nothing funny to say. I was relieved. And just for time’s sake, now these people are close friends of mine. They are actually dependent on my pasta. Like they cannot live without it, so it’s good for me.

Here is the recipe:

Pasta

Water Sauce

Boil water Add pasta

Drain water

Add sauce

Serve