Many years ago as a young boy of 9-10-11 one of my jobs in my mother's "cucina"
was to run the pasta machine when she made the wonderful spaghetti or linguine
(made with real eggs!). Many of you over 40 will remember that sturdy little
machine with the wooden rollers for flattening the dough and the various cutters
for cutting the long strips after they were dried.
I remember the ritual well.....taking the machine with all its attachments out of
the kitchen cabinet and fastening it down to the flour-dusty kneading board,
installing the right roller, attaching the turning crank and tightening the tension
knob on top. Then I'd turn the crank a couple times to make sure all the parts
were installed right. I had to stand on a chair to reach the crank handle.
When it was ready Mom (Raffaella was her name) would flatten the dough with
her rolling pin, flour it and I'd roll it through the little machine and flatten it into
a long strip in two or three passes. I didn't realize it at the time but the sound
and feel of the clickety-clack clickety-clack of the gears of that little machine
must have been absorbed into my bones and brain cells.
The years appeared and disappeared. My wonderful parents died and the years
continued to disappear as I was distracted by the growth and maturing of my own
family. One thing I managed to save was that little pasta machine. What a wonderful
antique and conversation piece it would be tucked away atop the kitchen cabinetry
in our modern-day home complete with micro-wave, dishwasher, computer controlled
oven, VCR, e-mail address, access to the internet, and on and on and on............
Fast-forward now to 1995. In preparation for retirement and all the things I promised
myself to do in my older years, my wife and I bought a brand-new, shiny, chrome
pasta making machine at an Italian grocery. I was determined to bake some
peasant-style Italian bread, grow my own lettuce, parsley, and pomodoro and above
all, make some home-made pasta! We even bought 10 pounds of imported semolina
flour and tucked it away in the freezer.
Then, after the retirement party, the gold Timex watch, the wonderful words of
farewell the great day arrived when the time was all mine. Within a few days I had
become a pretty good house-husband while my wife continued her job. Over the next
few weeks I tried and failed three times to make the peasant bread but the forth time
I finally did it. The smell in the kitchen while the bread baked made me 9 years old
again.
Then one day it was time to make pasta. I found the shiny chrome machine still
un-opened in its box. I began reading the instructions. (I'm sure MomÕs old pasta
machine was looking down on me with superior chagrin from it's perch atop the
cabinets). So I made the semolina dough in our new Kitchen-aid complete with dough
hook. (No more arm-wrenching kneading for us moderns!). The dough was not too
sticky, not too dry and had a nice resilient feel. Just right! I cut it into pieces and
began feeding it through the flattening phase of the shiny chrome machine. Nice long
strips. Just the right thickness. Perfect! I could already taste it in my imagination.
Phase two was to feed the strips through the cutters to make a small linguine. Strip
one went through fine. Strip two went through fine. Then the shiny chrome machine
began to screech and grind like the gears were slipping and wearing away. Soon the
gears screeched to a halt. I knew immediately it was going to be disaster. The taste
in my imagination faded. I wouldn't be able to finish cutting all the strips! The cuss
words you don't want to hear. They were not fit for even mature ears. The Italian
company that made that shiny chrome machine got a good piece of my tongue that
morning.
Then a brainstorm! Would Mom's little machine still work? Could I finish the job
using that little machine? After 45 years! Doubtful.......but I could almost feel the
chagrin change to a warm smile as I lifted the little machine from it's dusty place
atop the cabinets. Almost without thinking I clamped the little machine down,
slipped in the right cutter with a practiced flourish, turned the crank and it worked!
I gave the crank a couple of practice turns and, sure enough, the old familiar
clickety-clack, clickety-clack and I chuckled to myself. I fed in the remaining
strips one by one, chuckling all the while. Then a strange thing happened. Still
chuckling, I got a knot in my belly and I could feel tears in my eyes. I was 9 years old
again and standing in Raffaella's old cucina! Now can you imagine a grown man of 65,
alone in his kitchen, turning the crank of a little old antique pasta machine
.....clickety-clack......clickety-clack......with tears in his eyes? Things like that
just don't happen these days......clickety-clack......clickety-clack.
Ray LaMacchia
March 16, 1996
