Restlessness Linguini

Tonight I was walking home from work feeling anxious in a familiar way—lonely that seemed like restless, or vice versa—caused by the problem of there being nothing fun for me to do tonight. No dinner plans, no drinks, no shows, no karaoke, no nothing. Just me, facing the problem of how to fill the remaining hours of the day. Every other little thing that’s been bothering me for the past few months started weighing down, too, capitalizing on my weak moment. I checked my phone at least ten times in fifteen minutes, wanting to hear from someone who wanted to do something that would be fun, and a LinkedIn update is the only thing I got.

Why was the prospect of a plans-free evening so unpleasant? It should be a blessing. My apartment is relatively clean, I have lots of work I could do, and moreover, it’s arguably appealing to sit and do nothing. I could read a book! Still, I fidgeted and despaired, tapped and swiped, and offered myself dessert or a drink at the pub later on as some kind of concession prize.

I thought about what I’d make for dinner. This gave me a detour in the form of grocery shopping, and ten dollars later I had all the ingredients for a broccoli pasta idea. I finished figuring out the recipe during the remainder of my walk, then I got home and I made it. Then I went to the computer and after an irritating half hour of clicking and refreshing, hoping that someone I like would post something I’d like, I started writing this.

In high school, on Friday and Saturday nights I’d sulk around the house waiting for the phone to ring and for a friend to ask me what I was doing. But I wasn’t making a wholesale appeal to the universe—there were only two or three people I wanted to hear from, and one, maybe two, things I wanted to do. “When I was your age,” my mom said several times when she found me in this state, “I wasn’t so picky. I just wanted to go do something, and I didn’t care who I had to do it with.” My problem, because she was right, was that I didn’t want to hang out with someone who’d annoy me, and I didn’t want to get dragged to something that would only make me wish I were home, watching a movie with my parents.

When I was really young and this feeling would come, I’d jump on the trampoline and sing or I’d play the piano. Then I got a little older and would venture to Hastings, a music and video rental superstore, that was a half-mile walk from my house. I spent lots of hours there, sampling music and prioritizing the order in which I’d rent the R-rated movies when I was old enough and buy the CDs when I had money enough. Then, once I got a driver’s license, I’d go to a coffee shop downtown, where I read or wrote or did homework, or most likely I sat on a sunken sofa and imagined—yearned for—the vague, specific cosmopolitan future that waited for me beyond Boise. I’m pretty sure this same vague, specific future is what I also yearned for subconsciously when I was singing on the trampoline or flipping through CDs at Hastings.

And now, here in Brooklyn, dirty dishes piled up in the sink, I suppose I’m living it.

Broccoli Linguini

Though it’s not entirely necessary, the next time I make this I’ll put a fried or poached egg on top.

Serves 2

10–12 ounces broccoli
8 ounces linguini
Olive oil
2 cloves garlic, sliced thinly
Big pinch pepper flakes
Salt
Pepper
Grapefruit or lemon zest
Finely grated Parmesan 

Break the broccoli into pieces just small enough so that they fit through the feeding tube of a food processor. Peel the stalk with a vegetable peeler. Pass the broccoli and stalk through food processor, using the slicing disc attachment, laying the pieces down lengthwise against the blade so that you get long and wispy broccoli pieces (broccoli cut this way goes nicely with long and wispy linguini). Alternatively, slice the broccoli into long, 1/8–1/4th-inch-thick slices using a knife or a mandoline.

Bring a pot of water to boil, then salt it generously. Add the pasta and cook until al dente—about 8 minutes, or according to package instructions. Reserve about 1/2 cup of the pasta cooking water, then drain the pasta and return it to the pot.  Meanwhile, heat a skillet over medium-high heat. Pour in a few tablespoons of olive oil. When hot, add the garlic and pepper flakes and cook, shaking the pan, until just fragrant. Then add all the broccoli and a big pinch of salt. Stir with a spatula or wooden spoon to coat it in the oil and garlic, then cook without stirring for 2 or 3 minutes to encourage browning. (If it smells like it might be burning, check, and if it is, turn down the heat.) Stir once and cook again for 2 or 3 minutes without disturbing, and then repeating the process once or twice more, until the broccoli is tender.

Scoop the broccoli into the pot with the drained pasta. Pour a few splashes of the cooking water into the skillet to dislodge any browned bits, scraping them up with a wooden spoon if you need to, and pour the liquid in with the pasta as well. Add a handful of parmesan, several grinds of black pepper, a drizzle of olive oil, and a few gratings of zest, then toss with tongs, adding splashes of cooking water as needed if the pasta seems dry. Serve hot, with additional cheese, salt, and pepper, as needed.