I have an unfinished wooden cutting board that belonged to my great-great grandmother. It has been in our family for well over 100 years, perhaps longer. The wear of ten decades are evident in the pores of the wood. Knife marks litter the surface, and there is a water ring in one of the corners that, I like to think, came from a glass of wine my great-great nonna enjoyed in 1927. It’s an amazing family heirloom I’m proud to own, because it is the board on which several generations of my family have made pasta.
Fresh pasta is something everyone should learn how to make. A simple combination of eggs, flour, salt, and water, the dough can be transformed into any number of unique shapes. There is no count for exactly how many types of pasta exist in Italy, because each region, town, and family has their own preferred shape. And while nearly all of us have grown up buying boxes of dried spaghetti from the grocery store, eating pasta that has been made by hand is a special experience. Especially if the hands used to make are yours.
My pasta journey started when I was 13. It was Christmastime, and I was in Boston at the invitation of my Uncle Joe. He wanted some help making the ravioli and tagliatelle for Christmas Eve dinner. Over the course of two days, he taught me how to mix, roll, and fill ravioli, and how to cut tagliatelle. This became a yearly tradition we would share together over the next decade.
With a growing family of my own, I felt it imperative to pass down the pasta making tradition to my children the way Uncle Joe had with me. I started with my stepdaughter, Natalie.
When I began dating my wife, Briana, in 2016, Natalie was all of 4-years old. I struggled massively with how exactly I was going to fit into her life. Briana assured me that a relationship would come, with time. I thought it would take forever. But I blinked, and suddenly Natalie is on the cusp of becoming a teenager. How did that happen? It’s not something I was remotely prepared for.
But no one can be truly prepared for fatherhood. Any man who tells you that he is 100% ready to be and 100% confident that he will be a fantastic father, is lying, though he no doubt believes himself. Of course, you can do the emotional, physical, and spiritual legwork required of being a man, but when you become responsible not just for yourself and your wife, but for another small, defenseless, vulnerable human being, your soul is forever changed. No man is truly be prepared for it, and that’s a good thing. You’re not a great dad the second the kid pops out. Fatherhood is something you grow into, and I had the blessing of being able to test out my own fathering chops four years before I had any children of my own.
Natalie and I first made pasta together when she was 7-years old. Like Uncle Joe and I had done before, we were making ravioli and tagliatelle for Christmas Eve. Though she couldn’t give the large ball of dough more than a few good kneads, Natalie was determined to roll a sheet of pasta through to completion. She watched as I cut a chunk of dough, flattened it with my palm on the ancient cutting board, rolled it out on the lowest machine setting, folded it into an envelope, rolled it through again, and then stretched the dough at each higher setting until I had a sheet that was longer than my wingspan.
Now, I’ve been to Italy. I’ve seen pasta magicians, i.e. nonna’s, stretch dough out by hand into enormously long, thin sheets that could blanket a football field. So, to me, the sheet I’d just created was mediocre. But to Natalie, it was the craziest thing she’d ever seen.
“Wow,” she said with a dropped jaw.
She continued to watch as I rolled more and more sheets and cut them into the ribbons that would eventually be drowned in my mothers enormous batch of Christmas tomato sauce.
Finally, we got to the last chunk of dough.
“Would you like to try on your own?” I asked.
“Yes,” Natalie said, without hesitation. I stepped back and let her proceed.
She flattened the dough with her hand, rolled it through the lowest setting, folded it into an envelope, and then rolled it through again. She’d been paying attention.
Only when the strand had become too long for her to handle did she ask for any assistance. I aided in the control of the sheet as we passed it through the machine several more times until, at last, we had a length of usable pasta.
Natalie looked at me, and smiled. It was the kind of smile only parents get to see. The kind that says: “I did it. Thank you for teaching me.”
Last week we were preparing for a dinner party. The menu was split among the guests. I was in charge of making pasta, and I invited Natalie to make it with me.
As we listened to the soundtrack from The Godfather - you know, for atmosphere - we began to work together in a way I had not yet experienced. Without saying much of anything, Natalie and I worked in a dance, stretching and cutting the dough into about two pounds worth of tagliatelle. When we got to the last of the dough, Natalie took the lead. Without asking any clarifying questions, she performed the process from start to finish, just like she had when she was 7, only this time she didn’t need my help handling the sheet.
As I watched her, I realized, not for the first or last time, that she was no longer the little girl I’d met nearly a decade ago. She was a young lady, capable of doing tasks with a concentration and manual dexterity few in her age group possess.
At the dinner party the next night, our pasta was a tremendous success.
After Natalie went up to bed and I washed the dishes, another fact hit me. That father/daughter relationship I was so worried about in the early days was now a reality. It has been a reality for a long time, but when you’re in the thick of parenting, you can sometimes miss things. It’s a wonderful connection she and I have been able to build, full of trust, humor, and endless teasing. I wouldn’t change a thing about it.
Well … except one.
I’ll leave you to figure that out for yourself.