Secret Sauce
Yesterday I went to the Boulder Farmer's Market, one of my favorite haunts. I enjoy watching the Boulder yuppies and hippies and foodies, kids and dogs in tow, showing concerned brows that they are buying the best-grown organic foods possible. Expense is no object, in fact, the more expensive the better, as that must mean that the growers spent hours carefully planting, shooing away insects, and harvesting the produce.
It's a festival of Boulderites. I am only a part-time Boulderite, but I fit right in, wearing comfy old cotton clothes, a cloth shopping bag on my shoulder, New Balance shoes (not made in sweat shops), and my Audi keys carefully dangling from my pocket.
Anyway. I had planned our same-old spaghetti dinner for that night's dinner and was looking for something to spice it up. Maybe some bread, or fresh veggies for the salad. I hit the jackpot: fresh multicolored radishes with the plant still attached, big red tomaotes, sourdough bread, and garlic Asiago pesto. At the last booth I even found fresh garlic-basil pasta. Yum! John isn't a pasta fan but what the heck, I love to try different pastas.
I came happily home and put together a fresh salad, laid out the bread and pesto, warmed the pasta sauce, and cooked the fresh pasta. Then came the trouble. I rather unsteadily held my small colander in the sink with my left hand, and poured the steaming pot of cooked pasta into it with my right. Then the pasta slithered over the side of the colander - one noodle started moving out and then all of it followed. I tried to tilt the colander back to save it, but it didn't help. I set the pot and the colander down and tried to grab the pasta, but it was flowing en masse down the garbage disposal. It was hot, so hot! For a few seconds I watched as more noodles flowed down into the disposal. I had to cool it down, so I turned on the cold water, even though I knew this would hasten the pasta down the drain. I grabbed hot noodles by handfuls and flung them back into the pan, keeping the cold water running to cool my hands. In the end I was reaching down into the garbage disposal for a large amount of the pasta. Who knows what else was down there.
Whew, finally I saved and cooled most of the pasta. I served it up and John kept saying how delicious it was. He who usually only tolerates pasta kept praising it.
Maybe it was the fresh, Boulder yuppie/hippie pasta, or maybe it was the secret sauce.
Words from a song about Boulderites by Left Over Salmon:
When I grow up, I wanna work at Alfalfa's
Where the cheese is dairy free
A Birkenstocks, Spandex, necktie, patchouli grocery
I'll have a job, picking through the produce - no pesticides for me!
I'll be a working moderate income socially conscience Boulder Hippie.
It's a festival of Boulderites. I am only a part-time Boulderite, but I fit right in, wearing comfy old cotton clothes, a cloth shopping bag on my shoulder, New Balance shoes (not made in sweat shops), and my Audi keys carefully dangling from my pocket.
Anyway. I had planned our same-old spaghetti dinner for that night's dinner and was looking for something to spice it up. Maybe some bread, or fresh veggies for the salad. I hit the jackpot: fresh multicolored radishes with the plant still attached, big red tomaotes, sourdough bread, and garlic Asiago pesto. At the last booth I even found fresh garlic-basil pasta. Yum! John isn't a pasta fan but what the heck, I love to try different pastas.
I came happily home and put together a fresh salad, laid out the bread and pesto, warmed the pasta sauce, and cooked the fresh pasta. Then came the trouble. I rather unsteadily held my small colander in the sink with my left hand, and poured the steaming pot of cooked pasta into it with my right. Then the pasta slithered over the side of the colander - one noodle started moving out and then all of it followed. I tried to tilt the colander back to save it, but it didn't help. I set the pot and the colander down and tried to grab the pasta, but it was flowing en masse down the garbage disposal. It was hot, so hot! For a few seconds I watched as more noodles flowed down into the disposal. I had to cool it down, so I turned on the cold water, even though I knew this would hasten the pasta down the drain. I grabbed hot noodles by handfuls and flung them back into the pan, keeping the cold water running to cool my hands. In the end I was reaching down into the garbage disposal for a large amount of the pasta. Who knows what else was down there.
Whew, finally I saved and cooled most of the pasta. I served it up and John kept saying how delicious it was. He who usually only tolerates pasta kept praising it.
Maybe it was the fresh, Boulder yuppie/hippie pasta, or maybe it was the secret sauce.
Words from a song about Boulderites by Left Over Salmon:
When I grow up, I wanna work at Alfalfa's
Where the cheese is dairy free
A Birkenstocks, Spandex, necktie, patchouli grocery
I'll have a job, picking through the produce - no pesticides for me!
I'll be a working moderate income socially conscience Boulder Hippie.
