Spaghetti alla Carbonara

After a freak 85-degree day in which I endured three-plus hours of un-air-conditioned public transit, ran across a highway in a slim skirt, and bit my nails to shreds at the pharmacy waiting to find out whether my new wonderdrug prescription was going to cost $200, let’s just say, Gentle Reader, that the only mindfulness I could summon was an awareness of what flavor of ice cream I wanted my minions to spoon-feed me with one hand, while fanning me with palm fronds with the other.

But, alas, said minions only exist in the world in my head (a most in-tee-resting place, if I do say so myself), and so it was up to me to make the dinner start-up happen, Nigella-style. I had originally planned to make a one-pan wonder involving an entire chicken, but, in true scatterbrain style, completely missed the “marinate for at least 2 hours, and up to 24″ portion of the equation.

Well, then. Clearly, there was only one sensible thing to do: make Nigella’s spaghetti carbonara. Yes, it involved a phone call to the still commuting (in an air-conditioned car, the lucky dog!) Fearless Husband, something along the lines of “Bring me the pancetta, and no one gets hurt!,” but hey. Desperate times, desperate measures, and all that. Bring on the Carb Loading Collection!

All right, people, I know I said no photos, but I'm a pushover for my own self-indulgence.

Spaghetti alla Carbonara, from Feast (Hyperion, 2004)

(Nigella says this is 1 serving. Unless you are in desperate need of a refill on your SSRI prescription, I’m guessing 4 quite generous servings would be more accurate for most people.)

• 1 lb. spaghetti (I used brown rice spaghetti, cause that’s how we roll in my pantry)
• 2 cups cubed pancetta, rind removed
• 2 teaspoons olive oil
• 1/4 dry wine wine or vermouth (all I had was girly vino*, but it was white, so I made do)
• 4 eggs
• 1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan (again, I cheated, and used pre-grated, and probably not half a cup worth, alas)
• 1/4 cup heavy cream (AKA double cream, in Britspeak)
• freshly ground black pepper and nutmeg (or dried, if you’re lazy like me)

Okay, get ready for your prosaic, decidedly un-Nigella-y, how-the-hell-is-this-woman-a-novelist rundown:

Boil your salted water, and plop your food intolerance-approved spaghetti o’choice in zee stockpot.

In a skillet massive enough to handle both pasta and requisite accoutrements (see! I can be florid! watch me!), fry pancetta in oil until, in the words of my heroine, tis “crispy not crunchy.” This may require a taste test to gauge texture. Fear not, it will be yum.

Then comes the fun part: take your vino, girly or not, and pour it in for a delightful deglazing sizzle. Let that chillax for a few, until you have what Nigella describes, quite rightly, as “a salty winey syrup.” Take the pan off the heat — or, if you are lucky enough to have a ceramic stovetop like I am, just shove it back a little.

"Salty winey syrup," ish.

Meanwhile, beat together the Parmesan, eggs, cream, and pepper in a bowl. Hyperventilate slightly at how very eggy (to say nothing of raw) this business all is. Take a photo to commemorate your anxiety. Feel better.

Raw eggs! So many! Ack!

Next, drain your pasta, swearing all the while at how badly that gluten-free fashizzle sticks to your stockpot. (Nigella suggests checking the spaghetti 2 minutes before the recommended cooking time, for al dente precision, but that all flies out the window a bit with alternative grains, I’ve found.) Reserve 1/2 cup of the pasta water (or forget, as I did, and mentally swear some more).

Add your finally-for-the-love-of-God drained pasta back to your Monstah Skillet, tossing it in the yumbly syrup. Then drizzle all that raw eggy creamy Parmesan-y goodness over the carb mountain, thinning it with water which may or may not have come from your pasta. Finally, grind your pepper and grate your nutmeg, or eyeball your pinches of dried spices, as desired.

Check the clock. Marvel at how fast that was. Put a verrrrry generous ladleful in a big chipped Ikea bowl. Nearly fall over at how decadent, and thick, and so unlike the sour cream, deli ham, and pea version from your childhood this is. Feel ready for bed, even without a Seroquel.

In short: mindfulness fail; carb coma win. (To say nothing of the utter, absolving sweetness of hearing one’s child call one the “best mama ever” for making her this for dinner.)

*Before you talk trash about my wine, however, you must know: This was not just any girly wine, but extry-special organic hootch from Trader Joe’s, that my friend Khadija procured from the trunk of her car and poured into a paper cup for me, during a midday moment of need at my MFA residency this past summer. The stuff is called Green Fin, and is fabulous, and Trader Joe, so usually my main man, is playing me out and refusing to keep stocking it. Hmph.