- Paula Burbridge -
omemade pasta is a little luxury I
have been indulging in since
my mother-in-law bought me a pasta mill.
It’s so simple that even I cannot get it wrong.
With just two basic ingredients, flour and
eggs, oh and a pinch of salt, I am can make a
bowlful of tagliatelle or spaghetti. Add to that
some smoked salmon, a few mussels, baked
vegetables, ham or perhaps just some plain
cheese and you can see that the possibilities
are endless.
is being finely floured by the same treatment.
In short, I am being passed through God’s
pasta mill. I can feel His hand holding me,
easing me between His rollers, waiting patiently for me to come out of the other side,
a little closer to the shape He wants me to
be. There are times He allows me to rest, but
only for a short while otherwise, just like my
own pasta, I would become dry and cracked,
and He would have to start the process all
over again.
There is a real sense of satisfaction sitting
down with friends and family to enjoy the
fruits of my labour. Pasta and fellowship,
what more could I want? The problem is
that I cringe every time I use the pasta mill.
Please stop laughing, I am being very serious. Oh, I start off alright. I measure out my
flour, crack in two or three eggs, making
sure I don’t forget that pinch of salt. Then I
begin mixing it all together until I have a ball
of dough. My problem actually starts when I
use the pasta mill itself. Time and time again
my ball of newly formed dough is squashed
between two rollers where it is pulled and
stretched, and pulled and stretched until it
is thin enough to use in one of the recipes.
In the end it bears no resemblance at all to
the raggedy, sticky ball of dough I started off
with.
I cringe because I like my comfort zone, it’s a
little bit scary being drawn out towards new
horizons. I cringe because there are moments when I want