I’ve done it. I pulled my fat pants out of the closet. Over the next week, maybe two, I’ll don my fat pants everyday and admonish myself for eating all of those sweets and decadent foods that never used to amount to extra pounds. Was it the antipasto platter on Christmas Eve? Perhaps it was our Christmas day roast beef and piles of butter-laden sweet potato casserole, which by the way, was far too delish to pass up. I made chocolate bark and ate at least 20 pieces. I baked chocolate cheesecake brownies and helped myself to approximately 10 of them as they cooled. Those brownies are killer with their light and fluffy mascarpone cheese topping. I make them just once each year and they are gone so quickly that you have to act fast or risk missing out for another 364 days. Here is a picture that some nice lady took of her delicious looking chocolate cheesecake brownies. Clearly, she is able to exercise much more self-control in their presence than I am, after all she kept some around long enough to capture them on film. Mine were far too elusive this year and are now but a sweet memory.
Last night I made an enormous pile of homemade pasta with flour, semolina and eggs. Not exactly the entree one would normally turn to in order to maintain her svelte figure, but so magically delicious. Homemade pasta is a family affair, full of love and sweet memories. I spent many hours along-side my Uncle Joe learning how to make pasta. He showed me how to build a volcano-sized pile of flour and tutored me on the correct number of eggs one used to feed a crowd. (There was always a crowd for his pasta.) He would carefully mix the dough, deftly mixing and kneading it to the proper consistency. We’d roll it through the pasta machine, over and over again. He’d allow me to turn the handle as that ball of dough was worked into one long, smooth shape ready to run through the machine just once more and sliced into mounds of pale yellow noodles. All the while, his hands worked the dough, adding flour when needed and hanging the pasta on drying racks throughout the kitchen. I’d catch the stray noodles and eat them raw, making him laugh that infectious, happy laugh. His eyes would sparkle as he gazed at me with love.