Disclosure: I’m not jumping on the quarantine bandwagon—I’ve been a proud owner of the Marcato Atlas 150 pasta maker for five years. In fact, I went through a phase around four years ago in which I adopted a weekends-are-for-homemade-pasta ritual that I immersed myself in for roughly three months. Since then, with the exception of uprooting the “Ferrari of pasta makers” to a higher shelf so I could stash my yoga blocks in its (former) easily reachable niche, my Marcato has sat in a deep state of dormancy...until recently.
My first foray into pasta making predates my ex-pat era. Before I moved to Italy, I took a class at La Vecchia Scuola Bolognese in Bologna where I learned the old-school method. For three hours, I kneaded, rolled, rolled, and rolled so arduously that for the next three days my delts and upper back were as sore as the aftermath of my first encounter with the assisted pull-up machine. Yet, crafting fresh pasta indued me with such an uplifting sense of accomplishment that I vowed to find space for this homey craft in my life. But then I returned to New York, work happened, and my memory of pasta-making remained just that until the said brief stint four years ago. Then along came the recent lockdown and I thought what better way to capitalize on my time indoors than by honing my inner casalinga?
To start, the pasta dough assembly doesn’t proceed as smoothly as I hoped. I mix 150 grams each of 00 and semolina flours, shape them into a mound, scoop out a well in the center, and crack three eggs into the hollow. I slowly start incorporating the flour into the eggs—a little too heavy-handedly as evidenced by the collapse of a half-inch portion of the well’s flour rim. Rounding my left arm forward and across, I hinge at the hips to contain the spillage with my free hand while I continue whisking with my right, inadvertently contorting into a convoluted revolved standing asana of sorts. After a few minutes, the texture becomes homogenous and I return to form, knead the dough for ten minutes, cover it in plastic wrap, and place it in the fridge for an hour.
I set up my wood pasta board on the table, which is where I have to attach and fasten the Marcato as my kitchen counter is un-clampable. I quarter the dough, roll out the first nugget, dust it with flour, and crank it through the machine’s widest setting. I fold it in half, dust with more flour, feed it through again, and then repeat these steps eight times. I then adjust to the subsequent thinness level, flour the dough, crank it through, readjust the thinness, and repeat until I arrive at the sixth setting. The dough emerges from each passage finer, longer, smoother, and more elastic. Save for a couple of eggshell specks, it looks the part if I do say so myself.
Since I didn’t roll out the dough by hand, I decide I should at least try adhering to something I learned at La Vecchia Scuola. I cut the first batch in half and fold the first sheet business-letter style and then slice the dough every one-quarter inch to make the tagliatelle, but something is awry. The ribbons are inconsistent—some clump together without unraveling while others (I don’t know how!) are even jagged. I salvage what I can, sprinkle with flour, then hang the pasta to dry. I repeat with the second sheet, which results in more not-quite tagliatelle. By this point, my patience is nonexistent and I decide to run the next batch through the Marcato’s fettuccine attachment—what a difference. Smooth, gorgeous, even strands emerge which then dangle alluringly from the drying rack. The process is so calming and meditative that I rebuke myself for slacking four years ago and start planning my next session. I immediately start toying with the idea of stocking up on a few additional Marcato attachments, such as spaghetti, parpadelle, mafaldine, and ravioli. But now I digress...
I carry on, feeding the third and fourth batches into the machine. Half the dried pasta goes into airtight bags for freezer storage while I boil the other half in salted water to accompany zucchini and shallots sautéed with olive oil and garlic. When I add the pasta to the pan, I stir, finish with basil, plate, coat with a blanket of Parmigiano-Reggiano, and call it lunch.
Next time, I’m giving lagane (which should be much simpler to cut!) e ceci a whirl.