The freezer compartment on my little fridge was conspicuously empty. I’d been sure that was something tucked in there, but apparently not. A quick scan of the cupboards was just as fruitless as it dawned on me that once again I’d bought dinner for the dog and forgotten about me. I reassure myself that I am not, after all, alone; perhaps it is endemic with dog owners as a friend had posted a few days before that she too does the same thing. I had a chuckle to myself. There is a phrase in French, bouffer des nouilles, a colloquiallism for poverty, but that was about the only choice I had at this time of night without driving into town.

Not that I mind. I like pasta. And there was the spaghetti incident.
When I first went to France to work, my employers took great delight in educating the palate of their naïve young employee. They are a lovely couple, but I have to say that where English tastebuds are concerned, they had a gently wicked streak. Now, bear in mind that I was born and raised in Yorkshire, not the wealthiest county by any manner of means and a long way from the cosmopolitan gastronomy of London. Post war rationing had ended just a few years before my birth, many areas of food production…particularly cheese… still suffered for decades and the food we ate was very plain and simple. In fact, the epithet ‘stodge’ fits quite well. Not because it wasn’t well cooked and savoury… but it was weighty stuff.

My grandfather was adventurous where food was concerned and when strange fruits and vegetables turned up at the market he would bring them home. Even so, I must have been in my mid teens before I saw a fresh bell pepper. Variety was limited to the tried and tested veggies of traditional British cooking, and, in my area, that was always based around the good old Yorkshire pudding.

This, I have to make clear, was not the light and crispy amuse-gueule that you see in shops and restaurants. This was the genuine article. This thing had presence. And it weighed a ton.

It came in the roasting tin, with a base an inch thick and solid as putty, with light, crispy sides like golden clouds around it. It was served as a starter… we’re not daft in Yorkshire. One slab …you couldn’t call this monster a mere slice… with a good ladle of rich, onion gravy and you were full. When times were tight, that’s as far as Mother would go, and no-one else actually needed much by way of meat after that. If anyone did have a spare corner, the mountain of mashed potatoes and overcooked veg heaved onto the plate soon took care of that. When you consider that dinner was generally followed by a steamed pudding, jam roly poly… or anything else that could be weighed down in thick custard, it is a wonder we could move. I suppose that was the same principle as bouffer des nouilles. Plus ça change and all that…

The pasta thing came about because of my employer. There had been a dinner party. And spaghetti. I was no lover of the tinned wormy things in tomato sauce that were one of Mr Heinz’s famous 57 varieties, but that was all I’d ever encountered…so a proper Spaghetti Bolognese was a revelation, both in taste… and length. Spaghetti had hitherto come in segments no longer than a few meagre inches… this stuff was yards long…! How the hell did you eat it?? I watched as the guests deftly and unconcernedly twirled and chatted, nonchalantly brandishing neat forkfuls and did my best, failing abysmally and regretting the pristine whiteness of my blouse which didn’t make it past the first attempt.

My boss had already had me with the horsemeat (“That was the best steak I’ve ever had!” “That was horse”) and the steak tartare… which she had kindly cooked after my third abortive attempt at swallowing…and I’d taught myself how to eat most of the unusual things I was being presented with… as long as it was actually dead. I could get into langoustine no problem, fillet a sole on my plate without mishap… but the spaghetti was a challenge. For a week I ate the stuff for lunch every day, just buttered and peppered, until I could wind away with the best of them.

So tonight’s meal, if less than nutritious, was rather nice. Ani, who also loves pasta, serenaded me with quiet whines as I ate and chuckled at some of the memories. Pity she can’t sing Bella Notte…