oils acted as aroma therapy on me, and Sevillano was one of my favorites. It usually made m e feel all blissful, and sexy, but no matter how much I inhaled its pungent fragrance or felt the smooth golden liquid on my tongue, I couldn’t quite get that feeling going.
Just as well, there was no one around to be blissfully sexual with.
I sighed, poured enough oil in a frying pan to coat the bottom, tossed in a little chopped garlic and let that cook for a bit. Then I added onion and cilantro, tossed that around until the onion became opaque and the garlic was just about to brown. I threw in two handfuls of pre-cooked linguini, broke an egg into a bowl, whisked until it began to foam then added it to the pan. I stirred that around in the hot oil until the egg was almost cooked, tossed in chunks of a buttery avocado, a chopped Roma tomato, a little water, more olive oil, a three-finger pinch of hot pepper flakes, and two cranks of black pepper. When the egg was cooked through, I slipped the steaming pasta mixture into a yellow bowl, drizzled our hot pepper Italian blend olive oil over it, sprinkled on a mixture of chopped fresh Italian parsley, spring onions, pitted Gaeta olives, and finely grated parmesan cheese. Then I sat down to feast. I was desperate for some comfort food.
Cooking always seemed to sooth me. It was one of the few domestic chores that I had mastered during my quest for sobriety. The entire sensory experience somehow gave me just enough of a diversion that while I was cooking I didn’t crave booze. I could get through anything as long as I could mix, chop, fry, bake, and boil.
At times I even fantasized about writing a cookbook for recovering alcoholics that praised the therapeutic benefits of meal preparation using olives and olive oil. I would call it: One Olive at a Time. . . a cook’s guide to addiction recovery.
Of course, I’d have to add a few side notes. It wouldn’t be just recipes. The recovering alcoholic would have to know which meals to prepare during their various levels of alcohol need. Take, for instance, after a mother’s visit. Depending on the amount of mother intrusion, the stress factor might only be a level one. Thirty minutes in the kitchen along with a twenty-minute eating fest should be all that was required.
However, I sometimes had a real problem during the actual meal. Swapping out a hearty red wine for sparkling water could be a hardship for some people — especially for a good Italian girl like me who grew up thinking wine was just another fruit juice — but determination would win out. And like me, the recovering cook would sit at his or her table, pour the sparkling water, and prepare themselves to indulge in my all time favorite breakfast.
I breathed in the seductive aroma of onions, olives and cheese. My mouth watered as I twirled the steaming pasta on my fork, which was pressed up against a spoon, the only way to successfully twirl slippery linguini.
“Umm,” I moaned aloud right before I took my first bite.
That’s when my stomach flipped, cramped and generally turned into a ball of pain.
Dickey!
Just thinking about him ruined my appetite. I got up, slid my plate into the fridge, popped a couple antacids, and started up my laptop to check out flights to Hawaii. I found one on Travelocity that left Sunday night from SFO at ten-thirty. I bought the flight and an extravagant hotel room right on the beach in Maui. I told myself that no matter what happened I was getting on that plane, and nothing or no one was going to stop me.
Pasta a la Gloria - Level One or Two
2 cups of cooked fresh linguini
1 clove garlic, crushed and chopped
1 tbs. finely chopped onion
2 to 4 tbs. chopped cilantro, depending on your palate
1/4 tsp. salt
1/2 chunked avocado
1 Roma tomato (chop half, reserve the rest)
2 tbs. Sevillano EVOO
1 to 2 tbs. Gaeta pitted olives (or olive of choice)
2 tbs. freshly grated Parmesan cheese
1 tbs. chopped spring onions (optional,
Just as well, there was no one around to be blissfully sexual with.
I sighed, poured enough oil in a frying pan to coat the bottom, tossed in a little chopped garlic and let that cook for a bit. Then I added onion and cilantro, tossed that around until the onion became opaque and the garlic was just about to brown. I threw in two handfuls of pre-cooked linguini, broke an egg into a bowl, whisked until it began to foam then added it to the pan. I stirred that around in the hot oil until the egg was almost cooked, tossed in chunks of a buttery avocado, a chopped Roma tomato, a little water, more olive oil, a three-finger pinch of hot pepper flakes, and two cranks of black pepper. When the egg was cooked through, I slipped the steaming pasta mixture into a yellow bowl, drizzled our hot pepper Italian blend olive oil over it, sprinkled on a mixture of chopped fresh Italian parsley, spring onions, pitted Gaeta olives, and finely grated parmesan cheese. Then I sat down to feast. I was desperate for some comfort food.
Cooking always seemed to sooth me. It was one of the few domestic chores that I had mastered during my quest for sobriety. The entire sensory experience somehow gave me just enough of a diversion that while I was cooking I didn’t crave booze. I could get through anything as long as I could mix, chop, fry, bake, and boil.
At times I even fantasized about writing a cookbook for recovering alcoholics that praised the therapeutic benefits of meal preparation using olives and olive oil. I would call it: One Olive at a Time. . . a cook’s guide to addiction recovery.
Of course, I’d have to add a few side notes. It wouldn’t be just recipes. The recovering alcoholic would have to know which meals to prepare during their various levels of alcohol need. Take, for instance, after a mother’s visit. Depending on the amount of mother intrusion, the stress factor might only be a level one. Thirty minutes in the kitchen along with a twenty-minute eating fest should be all that was required.
However, I sometimes had a real problem during the actual meal. Swapping out a hearty red wine for sparkling water could be a hardship for some people — especially for a good Italian girl like me who grew up thinking wine was just another fruit juice — but determination would win out. And like me, the recovering cook would sit at his or her table, pour the sparkling water, and prepare themselves to indulge in my all time favorite breakfast.
I breathed in the seductive aroma of onions, olives and cheese. My mouth watered as I twirled the steaming pasta on my fork, which was pressed up against a spoon, the only way to successfully twirl slippery linguini.
“Umm,” I moaned aloud right before I took my first bite.
That’s when my stomach flipped, cramped and generally turned into a ball of pain.
Dickey!
Just thinking about him ruined my appetite. I got up, slid my plate into the fridge, popped a couple antacids, and started up my laptop to check out flights to Hawaii. I found one on Travelocity that left Sunday night from SFO at ten-thirty. I bought the flight and an extravagant hotel room right on the beach in Maui. I told myself that no matter what happened I was getting on that plane, and nothing or no one was going to stop me.
Pasta a la Gloria - Level One or Two
2 cups of cooked fresh linguini
1 clove garlic, crushed and chopped
1 tbs. finely chopped onion
2 to 4 tbs. chopped cilantro, depending on your palate
1/4 tsp. salt
1/2 chunked avocado
1 Roma tomato (chop half, reserve the rest)
2 tbs. Sevillano EVOO
1 to 2 tbs. Gaeta pitted olives (or olive of choice)
2 tbs. freshly grated Parmesan cheese
1 tbs. chopped spring onions (optional,
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