The Chitarra and the Thread

Dear Friends at the Table, Cara amici a tavola,

There’s a strange kind of panic that comes when I give myself a window to write.

This morning it was eight minutes.

Eight minutes before seven o’clock—my quiet, self-imposed cutoff for early writing. And of course, I waited until the very last minute.

I always seem to do this.

I think it comes from the kitchen—those years of being handed an order and knowing it had to be done in five minutes. Maybe less.

There’s something in me that still responds to that pressure.

And so I sat down, knowing I didn’t have time to get it right.

Only time to do it.

It feels a bit like the chitarra. The pasta cutter I finally ordered from Italy—from Abruzzzo. Its something I had been thinking about for a long time.

Chitarra Pasta cutter

You roll out a sheet of pasta.

Lay it across the strings.

And then—almost counterintuitively—you press the small wooden rolling pin over the top.

At first, it feels like it won’t do anything.

That nothing will happen.

But there is a way.

The pressure has to be just right, light, but certain.

The dough has to be dry enough, but not too much.

A soft resistance, and then a release.

The strands fall through. Square, not round.

The Pasta Cut on the Chitarra

Not quite what you expect.

The first time I made it, the pasta was too thin.

It was delicate. Completely semolina.

Almost transparent.

Beautiful. Golden.

And just a little brittle.

I’ve been thinking about making it again.

Maybe not in time for Five Points Fest this weekend, but soon.

Because there’s something about it I want to understand better.

I finally ordered a chitarra from Italy—something I had been thinking about for a long time.

I don’t even fully know where that idea began.

But I recognize it now.

It’s the same thread.

The one that runs through food,

through memory,

through the questions I’m asking about where we come from.

The same thread that has led me—quietly, persistently—

toward the DNA anthology,

toward these stories,

toward something I’m still in the process of naming.

I didn’t get it perfect.

But I did get it down.

Only time to do it.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

I didn’t know then what those strings held. I only knew they made something I could feel.

There’s a sound the chitarra makes when you press the dough through its strings.

A soft resistance, and then a release.

A kind of music.

What’s your kind of music?

At the Table

If you’d like to gather—here are a few upcoming moments:

🍞 Five Points Fest

April 25 | Youngsville

I’ll be sharing tastes from and signed copies of TALES OF THE MISTRESS and THE MISTRESS OF APPLES AND BÉCASSE.

Plus a few Secret Starter Society packets.