The Long Way Back with Wet Bread

Rain all day, the sort that doesn’t fall so much as hang in the air and wait for you to step into it. I went out for bread anyway — there’s a bakery two streets down, but I took the long way, up past the old wall and down the back lane where the stone is worn smooth and dark. Everything smelled of wet rock and wet leaves, that cold mineral smell that’s better than most things I cook. By the time I got to the door my coat was heavy and the paper bag was going soft in my hand, which is the correct price for taking the long way, and I’d pay it again tomorrow.

The neighbour caught me on the step on the way back, wanting to know whether I’d heard the roof argument has finally been settled or finally been abandoned — nobody can tell the difference, least of all her. We stood under the little overhang for ten minutes while the gutter emptied onto the path beside us. She’s decided she’s against umbrellas in principle now, on the grounds that they’re the only thing you buy, carry, and lose in the same afternoon. I said that’s not a principle, that’s a grievance. She said it’s both, and went home.

The bread was wet on one corner and I wasn’t going to waste it, so supper was a pot of mushrooms — the dried ones from the back of the shelf, soaked and cooked slowly with garlic and a little chili, and the soaking water strained and used to finish the pasta in the pan. It’s a trick worth having: the grit sinks and stays behind, and what you pour off tastes like something that took hours instead of twenty minutes. I ate it with the bread, which had dried out enough by then to be useful for the job.

Here’s the small thought I’ve been carrying since the lane. I’ve been calling my umbrella broken for a month because one of the ribs doesn’t snap flat. It isn’t broken, it’s just a rib that needs to be pushed back by hand before it closes. I only found that out by actually opening it and looking, which took nine seconds and which I’d avoided for four weeks because I’d already decided what was wrong. I do this constantly, in kitchens and on computers alike: the diagnosis feels finished long before the evidence is in. Ask the thing to show you. It usually will.

Recipe: Pasta ai Funghi Secchi

Ingredients

30 g dried porcini, or mixed dried mushrooms
300 g pasta (tagliatelle, or a short shape)
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 cloves garlic, lightly crushed
1 small dried chili (optional)
a handful of flat-leaf parsley, chopped
salt and black pepper
grated parmesan or pecorino, to serve

Preparation

Soak the mushrooms in 300 ml warm water for 20 minutes. Lift them out, squeeze gently, and chop. Strain the soaking water through a fine sieve or a paper filter and keep it — that’s where the flavour is, and the grit stays behind.
Warm the oil in a wide pan with the garlic and chili and cook gently for a minute, then take the garlic out while it still smells sweet.
Add the chopped mushrooms and cook 5 minutes, then pour in the strained soaking water and simmer about 10 minutes, until it has reduced a little. Season.
Cook the pasta in salted water until al dente, drain it, keeping a cup of the water, and toss it in the pan with the mushrooms, adding pasta water as needed so the sauce coats every strand.
Stir in the parsley, grind in pepper, and serve with grated cheese.