Paradise in a Bowl | Derek Harmening
This recipe feeds two. Store-bought noodles are fine, but if you’re cooking to impress, you’ll want to start from scratch.
- Gather all ingredients. Mix the flour, eggs, oil, salt, and water until a smooth, thick dough forms. Knead the dough gently, the way you used to rub Sara’s back on the sofa, your thumbs working the hollows of her shoulder blades while, face-down between two cushions, she would groan, “Jesus fuck that hurts, Owen. Keep going.” You want the dough to be smooth, elastic, springy—like you. You are resilient, quick to bounce back, not easily bruised.
- Wrap the dough in Saran Wrap and refrigerate until slightly cool. You will know the dough is ready when it feels like the air on a mild spring night, crisp and damp and lush with potential, the way it felt that twilit April you and Sara walked beside Lake Michigan, fingers entwined, as she turned to you on the stone revetment and said, “I want you to meet my parents.”
- Roll and cut the dough into your desired pasta shape, such as bowtie or rotini. Avoid abstractions, like the love line on Sara’s palm, or the imprint she left on the twin-sized bed each morning, careful not to wake you on her way to accounting class. These shapes are vague, and imperfect, and unlikely to hold.
- In a large saucepot, boil two quarts of water over medium heat. Add a pinch of salt.
- Text Sara. Let her know you’re excited to see her. Don’t be weird. You might say, “It was nice running into you at Colin’s party last week. Thanks for agreeing to dinner on such short notice.” Avoid saying, “I miss you. I’m in therapy now. I hope this isn’t weird, but I’m cooking the same dish we ordered at Tomasco’s on your birthday, the one you called ‘paradise in a bowl’? I know neither of us believes in God, but maybe it’s fate that we ran into each other at Colin’s party last week.”
- Better yet, don’t text Sara. She said she’ll be here at seven. You can talk then.
- Add pasta to the boiling water. Cook until noodles are al dente, a phrase you only know thanks to that Duolingo course you and Sara took together but gave up on after two weeks’ tepid commitment. Things were going badly then, and you had hoped that by cultivating some new, shared passion, you would manage to narrow the widening gulf between you both. You even bought a travel guide to Italy. You half-believed it might really happen: you’d fly coach to Venice, feed each other mouthfuls of prosciutto, test your fluency on the locals. When you mentioned gondola rides, Sara bit her thumb and said, “You know I get motion sick on boats.” She went back to scrolling Instagram, and you put the book on a shelf in the back of your closet.
- In a large skillet, heat the butter, garlic, and one cup of dry white wine. No need to break the bank, here—just use one of those leftover bottles of Chenin Blanc, the inexpensive ones you bought when Sara passed her CPA exam and you invited some friends over and you all drank and laughed and danced along to Paula Abdul until late in the evening. Simmer until the smell of alcohol fades, and with it the image of Sara that night, standing by the mantle, teeth bright, candle-lit, already further from you than you knew.
- Ping. Check your phone. Don’t let the sauce burn while you read, re-read, and gradually process Sara’s text. Stand very still. Wait for the ringing in your ears to pass.
- Drain the pasta and add it to the sauce. Stir in the cherry tomatoes and button mushrooms you bought at the farmer’s market in Hamlin Park. You and Sara had one of your first dates there; she introduced you to easter egg radishes, and you fed her rosemary cashews. At some point, a neighbor’s springer spaniel slipped its collar and bolted into traffic. You lured the dog to safety with a palmful of cashews, its sandpaper tongue grazing your knuckles. “You’ve got the magic touch,” Sara said, pressing two fingers to your wrist. The sky that day was a bright, eye-watering blue, the clouds like tiny explosions.
- Reply to Sara. Tell her it’s fine. You get where she’s coming from. You’d thought it would be nice to catch up, for old times’ sake, but now you realize it was improper of you to ask. Things are still raw. Really, this is what’s best for you both.
- Serve the pasta in two bowls—because, despite everything, you can’t help thinking that maybe she will have a change of heart. That perhaps, even now, she’s on the platform, waiting for the next train, sighing through her nose as some shaggy-haired busker plays “Walking in Memphis” on his battered Yamaha. God, how Sara loathed that song. She isn’t a smoker, but if it came on at the bar, she’d bum a Newport just to escape it. Garnish the pasta with grated Parmesan and freshly cracked pepper, to taste. Take your first bite. Accept that it tastes nothing like Tomasco’s. Wait for a soft knock on the door. Imagine what you both will say. “You won’t believe what song was playing on the El,” Sara will begin. “Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea,” you’ll counter. “Don’t you dare,” Sara will laugh, as you hold the sauce-flecked spoon to your lips and start caterwauling about blue suede shoes and Delta Blues. You’ll keep things light at first, and easy, and maybe, after a cheap bottle of Chenin Blanc, you will begin to talk about the things that matter.
Bonus audio of Derek reading his piece:
about the author:
Derek Harmening’s work has appeared in X-R-A-Y, Five on the Fifth, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Kirkus Reviews, among others. His flash fiction story “What the Cherub Saw” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021.