It is made up of nothing but eggs and olive oil and flour and a flick of the wrist.
There the ingredients sit in a pile on your kitchen counter, ready to be molded into Sunday's most glorious indulgence: fresh pasta. Sunday dinner is never a real meal without it.
You pour double zero flour on your clean counter, pushing the fine powder into a small mountain. With your fingers, you create a large well in the middle of the pile--the new home to your eggs and olive oil. You crack three eggs, letting them slip from their shell into the flour nest. Next is the olive oil, the golden liquid dropping from its spout to wrap itself around the raw eggs.
Gently, you poke the yokes with a fork and whisk the eggs and oil together until they look like a rich yellow custard. You let the fork scrape the flour edges of your well a little at a time until you've got a soft dough forming on your counter. A fork will no longer do. You use your hands, folding in the last of the flour and kneading, relishing the feel of the tender pasta dough on the pads of your fingers and palms.
You are up to your elbows in flour. That is when you know it is time to let the dough rest as you put together the pasta maker, your steel jewel that transforms the golden ball into fine strands of heaven.
You take a small piece of that ball and roll it through your machine, first once, then twice, then three times until it is a thin strip. You dust the dough again in flour then roll it through one final time so that it breaks into thin strands. You do this again and again, growing your pile of pasta until you have no more dough left.
All that remains is a pot of boiling water to transform your raw strands into edible perfection.
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