Cold Pasta

I love cold pasta.

It's about as simple a meal as you can get, second only perhaps to pizza because that you likely didn't make yourself the day before.

I made pasta yesterday for dinner. Whole wheat shells topped with sautéed onions, garlic, summer squash, tomatoes, olives, artichoke hearts, fresh basil and oregano, and feta. Yesterday we ate it hot at the dining table, breaking a sweat while doing so.

A few hours later, after dishes, after working on a writing project, I opened the fridge and its glow leaked suspiciously into the dark kitchen. What, after all, could I possibly want at this time of night? There was the pasta, reposing in a plastic container, innocently abiding its time on the shelf next to the peanut butter. It had cooled down by now, and the container was heavy as I pulled it from the fridge.

The Tupperware released some garlicky air when opened. The kitchen drawer groaned when I opened it for a fork.

Cold pasta is best eaten standing at the counter, the container in one hand, fork in the other. By this point the noodles have absorbed all the flavor of the accompanying players in the dish, but mostly the garlic. Perhaps this is why I love it so. The thing is, cold pasta does not look good. No one else really wants to help you finish it, which is fine by me.

It was 9 in the evening. I had just finished a small bowl of raspberry sorbet but I knew something better was waiting. I busily shoved a few forkfuls in my mouth, not wanting to spoil all the fun for today.

You can guess what I'm having for dinner.