Ditalini with Radicchio and Peas

A display of fresh, healthy vegetables cast a smile upon my face. Beautiful garnet orbs displayed beneath a wealth of artichokes (artichokes too—I must be seeing things—am I in the right store?). Quick inspection. A retrieval of one, bound for my basket.

Subject: dinner tonight

Pasta with peas and radicchio?

I found a nice head of radicchio today...
We could do ditalini.

Subject: RE: dinner tonight

Sure, give it a whirl. :)

Subject: RE: dinner tonight

I think it will be good. :)

But the sky was falling as I prepped. Rain Rain Go Away!

Resigned, I pressed on. No photos tonight. Out of my hands. Frustration.

Half a bag frozen peas (rinsed of their icy coat and set to drain in a strainer on a plate).

A stack of gingerly peeled radicchio leaves (their cups skyward).

The aluminum skillet caught the rest (heaps of extra virgin olive oil, a chopped clove of garlic and shallot, a torrential shower of crushed red pepper).

One half pound ditalini.

On standby, half a lemon, white wine, cream, salt and pepper.

Everything was a go. I poured the peas into the pan. As they warmed I salted the boiling water and dropped the pasta (a quick stir—setting the timer for perspective-sake).

A salt and pepper of the peas, a glug glug glug of wine, a squeeze of lemon. The spray from the pan bounced out of the pan and onto the stainless steel cook top. Argh! The flame was gentle all the while.

Stir the pasta. Check the time. Stir the peas. Add the radicchio. Salt. Taste. Salt. Taste. Salt. My pinches must be lacking. Taste. Good.

"It looks like bacon." I said.

"It does. You know what would be good? Peas and bacon." He said.

"I know. Bacon would be good in this. Next time." I said.

I had it. It was handled. All under my control. Nervous, to say the least. I'll just die if this doesn't taste good.

Reserve of pasta water. Ditalini drained and added to pan. Loads of stirring and grinds of pepper. A few splashes of cream (that's all we ever do—it's never heaps or exaggerated glugs—honest). A bit of chopped parsley.

It was time to plate. I mounded lovely piles into our bowls and brought them to the table. We sprinkled on a nice mix of grated parm and romano cheeses. Spoons-to-pasta-to-mouths.

He said it first. "This is good."

In a slight state of shock I responded. "This IS good."

"Good job." He said.

"Thank you." I said smiling.

A welcomed sigh of relief. I hoovered my bowl, to say the least. Enough for seconds for us both and leftovers for my lunch the following day, this day.