I had this idea the other day: dedicating an entire month to pasta. Cooking one dish after another, from creamy carbonara to spicy arrabbiata (with garlic!), all while chasing something close to perfection. But instead of pairing it with wine, I pictured something brighter—like fresh orange juice, squeezed right before dinner.
Cooking pasta always takes me back to a time when I lived with a host family in America. They had this tradition they called “Ravioli Day,” and it was exactly what it sounds like—a whole day devoted to making ravioli from scratch. We’d roll out endless sheets of pasta dough, fill them with ricotta and spinach (or whatever was left in the fridge), and pinch each one shut with our fingertips. It was a mess—flour everywhere, sticky fingers, and a little chaos—but it was also pure joy. (Back then, my English was… let’s just say, not great. Conversations felt like puzzles, and I didn’t always have the right pieces. Instead of speaking, I became a master of pointing)
When I think about this idea, in my head U2’s Bono is already singing something from The Joshua Tree. It’s like my brain automatically cues the soundtrack for these imaginary pasta nights—something a little dramatic.
A few years later, I had a month like that with a boyfriend. We decided to cook something new together every week. One time, we tried dumplings, and by the end, they looked more like lumpy crushed pillows than anything edible. But we laughed so hard, it didn’t even matter. Those nights were fun and messy, full of little moments I still think about.
Now, I think about pasta month and wonder if it would feel the same doing it solo. Cooking something so rich and indulgent, only to sit down at the table by myself, feels bittersweet. And yet, maybe it could be nice in a different way. After all, I wouldn’t have to argue over the last ravioli.
But to be honest, what I’m really looking for isn’t just a fun month of cooking or a perfect meal. I want connections that feel real—like that ravioli day, where time slowed down, and life felt simple and full. Connections that last, even after the plates are empty and the glasses are dry.
Maybe I’ll still give pasta month a try. I’ll start with something easy, pour myself a glass of orange juice, and see where it takes me. Who knows? If I’m lucky, one day there’ll be someone at the table again, laughing with me over crooked dumplings or pinched ravioli. For now, though, the idea is enough to keep me smiling.