We meet again. It has been a long, soulful silence—a silence punctuated, no doubt, by your thoughts of me, those endless thoughts, those carnal thoughts, thoughts of radishes and gristle, of dirt and sweet plumjuice dribbling down the chin of Time—and during this fruitful silence, this nine months, if you will, of my Ideabearing, I have borne a child. A recipe. A child-recipe. This recipe is my child. I have not actually experienced the miracle of childbirth. But the agony—yes, yes, Reader. I bring you a dish so delectable, so nuanced, that to taste it is agony. Agony of the tongue and of the soul.
Reader, hast thou truly experienced Cheese? The addictive malt of fermenting cow’s milk? The mouldy stench of an expensive Bleu? Notice, Reader, how I spell “blue”: bleu. That is the French spelling. French like my soul.
To make my Vomghetti, you will need a pristine pitcher of creamy milk, fresh from the nipples of a cow. Allow a tomcat to lap at the milk dribbling down the sides of the pitcher—this will flavor your Vomghetti with that indescribable something known as je ne sais pas. Mix the farm-fresh milk with a pile of stone-ground wheat (ah, these stones, these ancient stones, tossed violently after fleeing Huguenots, so serene, so naïve, soaking up the sun—ah, life, life! Thou art an unpredictable mistress).
Using your own ten fingers or the paws of the tomcat, form the flour-milk paste into strands of beautifully imperfect pasta. Cook until done. What is Done, Reader? Done is when you Feel that it is Done.
Toss the Vomghetti with olive oil. Sprinkle with several cracks of fresh pepper and a generous helping of Parmesan cheese. Consume.