Get out the pasta sheets and embrace the magic
At the beginning of the pandemic, like many young-ish people, my partner and I moved back in with my mom and stepdad for a few months while we figured some shit out. It was a soft landing after an international relocation — soft because my parents are two remarkably chill people who also happen to have a pool. Except for my stepdad, we all also love to cook, so even if we wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while, at least we’d be eating well.
By midsummer, we were regularly making clam bakes and elaborate charcuterie boards and sometimes two desserts in one night. We started planning dinner for Thursday night on Tuesday night. When there were birthdays or otherwise vaguely celebratory occasions, it was all we talked about for weeks, texting recipes back and forth and comparing notes.
But we still spent lots of time at my parents’ house , and one random weeknight a few months later, we walked into our former crash pad to the smell of oregano and melting mozzarella. We hadn’t triangulated on dinner plans that night — we were merely coming over as invited guests. My mom was pulling an enormous tray of what looked like lasagna from the oven. But when she put the tray down on the table, we looked at its construction, slightly confused.
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