The flour made a small cloud when I poured it onto the counter this morning, catching the early light through the kitchen window. I'd been putting off making fresh pasta for months, maybe years, telling myself I didn't have time or the right tools. But there I was, forming a well in the center of the mound like my grandmother used to do, cracking three eggs into the golden crater.
The dough fought me at first. I'd added too much flour, nervous about stickiness, and spent ten minutes kneading what felt like a stubborn ball of clay. My forearms burned. This is why people buy dried pasta, I thought, half-laughing at myself. But then something shifted. The gluten relaxed under my palms, and the dough became silky, almost alive. I understood suddenly why Nonna always said the dough would tell you when it was ready.
I made the mistake of rolling it too thick on my first attempt—I don't have a pasta machine yet, just a wooden rolling pin that belonged to my mother. The noodles came out uneven, some thick as shoelaces, others paper-thin. I cooked them anyway in salted water that smelled faintly of the sea.