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#girls will hyperfixate so bad they read a pasta recipe and go “this reminds me of jesse my best friend jesse pinkman”
delisocks · 2 months
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when you make fresh pasta, you have to knead the dough for a long time. generally speaking, it’s not done until you can stick a finger in it and it springs back up again. jesse learns all this for the first time in alaska: of course he used to make lunch for ginny back in abq, but that was Different— it was always easy stuff, grilled cheese and salads and instant hamburger helper. nothing as deliberate as pasta. it’s a while before he’s ready to Cook again, really, with the everything, and those first few weeks are a blur, but eventually he gets hungry. he can’t quite tell if it’s day or night from the thin slats of light passing through the blinds onto his comforter, only that he is awake and there is something empty inside of him. he wanders aimlessly into the kitchen, which is wide-open, spacious. untouched. ed had provided him with enough food for maybe a month— more easy stuff, boxed and frozen and plastic-wrapped— but most of it is gone by now, leaving only ingredients. he finds flour and olive oil in the pantry, eggs in the fridge that still look okay. in one drawer there’s a thin stack of index cards, recipes all in ed’s neat, careful print. he flips through them until he finds one that looks easy: fettuccine alfredo, something he vaguely remembers his mom making when he was a kid. and this is how ellis driscoll begins his new life, swaying alone in an empty kitchen, squinting to read in the early-morning light. he presses into the dough and watches it puff around his finger. something Solid and Real. the first sign of civilization is a healed femur. the first sign of healing is a home-cooked meal. the pasta always springs back.
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