Ep. 2: The one with the well-soaked rigatoni
I haven’t had a solo bath since I was a child. Actually, that’s not true. In January 2012 during a very horrible kidney stone ordeal my sweet mother (henceforth only to be referred to as my sweet mother, or MSM for short) made me a hot bath to calm my wild-horse-gone-mad-with-pain thrashing about. Come to think of it, the last time someone drew me a solo bath I was also in blinding pain (alas, that tub went unsoaked in and grew cold as I was whisked away to the ER by my heroic Max - henceforth only to be referred to as my heroic Max, or MHM for ease of use). And here I am now - not in pain exactly - but certainly in a low-fi state of distress that’s in need of soothing.
Brought on by a twinge of back pain, and likely a lot of fussing from yours truly, MHM suggested a nice hot bath complete with red wine and candles. As I slipped into the water and succumbed to the lovely warmth my mind became truly giddy with thought. A mildly hysterical stream of consciousness poured over (accompanied by Headspace’s beautiful rendition of Sunset Lagoon), and funny considerations popped up, such as (but not limited to):
Why does nobody tell you how much core work is required in a shallow tub?
Does my basement neighbour frying onions for his dinner realize the sound he just heard was my butt as it suddenly squeaked across the enamel?
Have I always been more of a Miranda July than an Elizabeth Gilbert? The former a person who imagines the blueberry smoothie they had at lunch now as a warm compote sloshing around in their stomach, rather than the latter - a gratuitous waxer, grateful for the nourishment of those sweet, sweet antioxidants.
My mind eased as I took in my surroundings and I came to appreciate my softer edges. Softer edges that seem especially relaxed in the tub as opposed to their often strained existence, attempting to masquerade as firm and taut in jeans. One thing led to another as my mind pivoted to food and what to cook for dinner this week. Dining In sat on the bathroom tiles next to me, but I was too blissed out to remove a limb from the restorative liquid. Earlier MHM and I had watched the charming Andy Baraghani of Bon Appétit whip up a mouth watering Pasta e Ceci (brothy pasta with chickpeas and tomatoes) that we knew had to be part of our lockdown narrative, so we started there.
A beautiful bowl of pasta is certain to give me more soft edges to appreciate. We drowned ourselves in the dish last night as I bawked unpopular opinions during my first ever screening of Top Gun. The dinner was *chef kiss*! It required a fine balance (one I don’t think I totally achieved) between cooking the sauce long enough to thicken, but not so long that your noodles begin to split. I wonder if it might have been especially delicious had we left the whole dish on the stove (off heat) to get a little more saturated in a bath of its own starchy goodness. Will experiment next time.
I write this from my second solo bath (I’ve got a whole set up going). I’m just as well-stewed as the pasta e ceci as I emerge half in the glass, with my other half reserved for cooking dinner (tonight it’s Alison Roman’s Brined Chicken with Fresh Za’atar and Four-Bean Salad with Green Romesco). Will report back when my fingers are less puckered.
Photo by Max Rosenstein
