A confession

Have you ever done something so lame, so out of character, so shameful that you want to expose it in the most public forum you can think of? Your blog?

Ok *gulp* here goes...Don’t judge. Don’t be haters.



A few years ago, when Papadada and I were still dating, I got suckered into doing something that I never thought I would ever do. I blame Rachael Ray, TV cooking-show queen, with her annoying-ass voice and dimples in her cheeks.

I was innocently watching her show one morning when she chirpily announced that she was going to be making...

 "You won’t be single for long Vodka Pasta - a dish that virtually guarantees a wedding proposal"

And there you have it. TOTAL. SUCKER. Hook, line and sinker. Burnt tyre smell, smoke cloud, vrrrrrooooom. I was racing off to the corner shop to load up on fettuccine before the show’s theme song could wrap up. 

I know, I know, it’s humiliating. Shame on me. Oh, if I only I could go back and take my then 27-year-old self, slap her across the face, and say “WHY, YOU DESPERATE FOOL", I would. It goes against everything I believe in to use voodoo, black magic, spells, superstitions, magic 8 balls, horoscope readings and the like to steer the path of romance. But dammit, I was in love. And if vodka-soaked carbs were the way to bag me this man, then someone tie an apron on me and light the stove, I’m about to get proposed to!

The whole way through the cooking process I could feel the weight of mini-good-me perched on one shoulder and mini-evil-me on the other. They were having it out. Mini-good-me was saying, "You are being manipulative and playing with fire. Using food to win a man over? Tsk Tsk". Mini-evil-me was saying, "You’re in love. Love makes us do crazy things. What’s the harm in trying?”. Needless to say, the devil in me won out.

Enter Papadada, home from a hard day at work. Exhausted and famished. hihihihihihi. I felt like the old lady/witch from Snow White with her poisonous apple. Come, my pretty....

Candles lit, vino cracked open and da da da dum! Behold the Vodka Pasta!

I ate, purely as a way to disguise the sound of my frantically beating heart. I ate and I watched. And waited...

Cut to end of meal, Papadada on couch...

“That was delicious, bub. Sensational” (silence) (more silence) (maybe he’s pulling out the ring?!) *Snore* Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz *Snore*

The man fell asleep while the left-over pasta went cold and gluey... And my poor heart turned to stone.

Die, Rachael Ray, DIE!!!!! Where the EFF is my proposal!??!HE IS ASLEEP!!!!!

Ok, so I had to hide my disappointment for a while. Disappointment which quickly turned to ‘I told you so, you crazy, desperate be-yatch!’

Ah, the memories....

Alas, there is a happy ending to my fettuccine tale. He did propose. 1 year later. So maybe the vodka pasta works after all?

Rachael Ray, you’re out of the naughty corner. You get a gold star.


End Note: I know you’re all chomping at the bit for the recipe. Here it is. Bon Appetit!