Birth of the Pasta

I saw a pasta making machine for the first time when I was five. It was at our old two story house in Massachusetts, which stood like a little chapel in the center of the street. The outside was painted a neat white and decorated with green shutters, unlike the decaying brown and red apartments in China that my parents grew up in. The kitchen smelled like shiny purple nail polish and brown paper grocery bags, with a soot stain on the ceiling that looked like a star. The wooden floor was warped from hot water and stray toys; nonetheless, the scars of the wood under our bare feet were familiar. 

My dad had purchased the pasta making machine upon coming to the United States, finding the concept of handmade pasta intriguing as a foreigner from China. Although the machine had been hibernating in a cluttered cabinet under the kitchen counter since our move into the house two years ago, it was easy to access because it sat on top of everything like the masthead of a ship. The pasta making machine was a sharp silver, with a handle shaped like a double jointed arm and several slots and ridges to feed the dough through. It first struck me as polished and substantial, calling for presence and order. I quickly realized, though, that it was an unformidable contraption, only able to function with the help of a human. It looked strange sitting on the edge of our kitchen counter, an out-of-place rock that did not fit in with its surroundings. 

After setting up the pasta machine, my dad began assembling the dough. My sister and I stood to the side as we watched him crack open two eggs onto a mound of flour. Although without formal pasta making experience, his movements were enthusiastic and precise, eager to explore a new craft. The flour and eggs were formed into dough by folding the flour over the eggs, reminding me of the way he folded a dumpling filling into its wrapper. When he judged that the dough could be mangled and tossed around without falling apart, it was ready to be formed into pasta. 

The dough wielded itself with care when it was inserted into the pasta machine. My dad spun it through the slot, willing it to grow longer, forcing it to stretch itself out. The dough refused to change the first couple turns, but then began to morph into a longer slab after a few more rotations of the handle. Looking at my sister, I observed her expression as she watched the dough liberate itself from the pasta making machine—unimpressed but curious, wisps of baby hair stuck to her face. Her hands rested ardently on the counter, so my dad handed the dough to her first. Deliberately, she put the dough into the slot and began to spin the handle. She watched as the dough entered the slot, but failed to see it exiting. Without any fanfare, the dough fell to the ground in a lumpy heap. 

“Oops,” she said. 

From where she stood at the stovetop, preparing other dishes to go with our meal, my mom laughed. The air smelled like a blend of all the dishes she was preparing to pair with the pasta, full of tomatoes and chicken broth and teriyaki shrimp. We worked together after that, one person spinning the handle and another person catching the dough as it emerged. As the dough transformed, its true form revealed itself—a long stretch of history with hiccups and scars, though still able to be built upon, stretched out even longer. Soon the dough hung off the edge of the counter, threatening to kiss the warped hardwood floors. 

When the sheet of dough was ready to be cut into pasta, we brought it to another slot of the machine where, instead of being smooth and flat like the slot used to flatten the dough, it was lined evenly with ridges to cut the dough into pasta. We fed the dough through the ridged side of the machine and watched as the noodles were birthed from the sheet of dough as anemic strands of hair.

My dad set water on the stovetop to boil in a silver pot we usually used for cooking dumplings. We saw ourselves mirrored in the metal of the pot, faces stretched and distorted by the cylindrical shape of the pot but nonetheless reflecting the same pride and joy dominating our faces. The heat and steam coming from the water warmed our skin and embraced us while we cooked the pasta, eager to experience the profoundness of eating what we had created. While my sister and I set the table with a mixed assortment of utensils, our parents portioned out pasta into our cheap dishes from Chinatown. When we realized it was time to eat, my dad cheered and shoved his face into the sea of pasta in his bowl. Stray bits of pasta clung onto surfaces like the tablecloth and the armrests of our wooden chairs. When mom asked us if we’d like to make pasta again, we all nodded our heads thinking, yes. 

Ellie Sun