Back to Work

Today I have been checking the NYTimes and BBC websites rather more often than is good for me, eager as I am for news of the unfolding crisis at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant. Pressure vessel steel is a material that comes into my place of work from time to time, and I know something of the dedication and seriousness with which nuclear engineers and technicians pursue their vocations. As one who doesn't even like to share the same laboratory space with a tank of liquid nitrogen when it starts a-hissing, I have great respect for the heroic efforts of those Tokyo Electric Power employees going about their dangerous and vital work. I offer them a hearty Ganbatte, kudasai! and implore them to harden their navels as they carry out their onerous responsibilities.

It is in no way meant to trivialize the risk to them (and to all of us, frankly), when I tell you that I suffered a small meltdown of my own recently in the relative safety of my own domestic kitchen. More precisely, I experienced a meltdown in my own feverish brain.

I am speaking, of course, of my latest wheatless pasta debacle.

Campers, you are all aware that before the onset of my gluten-freedom fighting, pasta was the go-to carb of choice chez Fractured Amy. Some of my earliest experiments involved ersatz noodle substitutes, with predictably disastrous results. Anything that could go wrong with pasta pretty much did. Some of it turned to glue. Some of it turned to mush. Some of it disappeared out the ventilation fan and some down the kitchen sink. I have not tasted one piece of toothsome al dente deliciousness in almost six months.

But I had come to understand that there are many ways to enjoy flavorsome sauces and chewy textures without resorting to boxes of Barilla. Brown rice! Risotto! Polenta! Potatoes! I accepted my lot and reached - if not a state of contentment - at least a state of mental and emotional equilibrium where I no longer felt that a life without pasta was a life not worth living.

It was somewhat reluctantly, therefore, that I was sucked back into the melee by one of my mysterious gratis issues of Bon Appetit magazine. In a special supplement on gluten-free diets (they're all the rage, apparently - I am nothing if not a trendsetter) I came across a blurb shilling for Bionaturae pasta, which comes from Italy (where they know a thing or two about pasta) and not Canada (where, I'm sorry to say, they clearly don't). I decided I needed to get some post haste. Since Bionaturae products are not available locally, I had to wait for one of my infrequent expeditions to Whole Foods to secure a few crinkly fresh sacci. I had to wait even longer before trying the noodles, since the exigencies of cheese-making and jam fabrication precluded all other gluten-free experimentation for several weeks.

So it was with nerves tingling with anticipation (and not a little dread) that I finally addressed my last chance of happiness. During the elapsed time between discovery (some time in January, I think) and tasting I had somehow worked myself up into the belief that peerless pasta would soon be part of my life again. Visions of thick ragu, carbonara, puttanesca, and gremolata danced before me - a possible future tantalizingly within reach now that there was Bionaturae (recommended by the editors of Bon Appetit!)  in the house. My state of serene philosophical acceptance evaporated like so much super-heated cooling water.

Upon initial examination of Bionaturae's offering, I was not totally discouraged by what I found. The noodles were a reassuring wheat color - not the bright yellow of corn pasta or the muddy tones of brown rice and multi-grain varieties. Perusal of the ingredients list did less to reassure me, however: rice flour, rice starch, potato starch, and soy flour are all common in the brands I have learned to loathe. The fact that the product was billed as being free of genetically-engineered substances cheered me not at all.

I boiled up some water and cooked the recommended two ounces (Sir and the Kid Squid, having lost patience with my pasta preoccupation long ago, chose Barilla instead - and I can't really blame them, I suppose).

Do I need to tell you what happened next? Can you not guess?

Despite my watching the bubbling pot like a hawk and testing the rigatoni for doneness, like, every thirty seconds, I missed its window of al dente exquisiteness (if it ever achieved such a state, which I doubt). The final dish, dressed simply in tomato sauce with some freshly-grated parmigiano reggiano, was somehow soggy, spongy and powdery all at the same time: sort of like licking a damp plaster wall, I would imagine. I ate two bites, sighed deeply, and consigned the rest to the bin under the sink.

Serves me right for tempting fate, I suppose. But now it's a long road back to tranquility.

Looks like pasta.
Tastes like library paste laced with rice flour.
Thank you, Bon Appetit,
for another stunning recommendation.