Lemon Butter Pasta with Roasted Artichokes and Fennel

Year four is over. Week 208. The world has changed. Schools are closed. Restaurants are closed. Churches are closed (Cornerstone went to online services — Mama is outraged. "How do you have CHURCH on a COMPUTER?" she says, as if the internet is a theological impossibility). I'm working from — well, I'm not working. The dental office closed. Elective procedures are cancelled. Teeth cleaning is elective, apparently. The world has decided that dental hygiene is optional, which is the most 2020 sentence I'll ever write.

I'm home. Both kids are home. Chloe is doing "remote learning" on the laptop (a school-issued Chromebook that arrived Monday in a plastic bag like a quarantine patient). She sits at the kitchen table and does math problems on a screen and looks at me with the betrayed expression of a child who thought school was a building and has discovered it's a concept. Jayden's pre-K has no remote learning because pre-K for four- and five-year-olds cannot happen on a computer because four- and five-year-olds are not designed for screens, they are designed for cubbies and paint and Diego and fire trucks. Jayden is home. Full-time. With me. With his fire trucks. With his questions. With his VOLUME.

Mama can't come over. The guidance says: high-risk individuals should isolate. Lorraine Mitchell is sixty-something with high blood pressure and arthritis and she is high-risk and she cannot hold my children and she cannot sit at my table and she cannot taste my food and the distance between our apartments — ten minutes by car — has become an ocean. We talk on the phone three times a day. She cries. I cry. The crying happens on separate couches in separate apartments and the separation is the cruelest part of a pandemic that is already cruel beyond measure.

Terrence can't come. Atlanta is locked down. Nashville is locked down. The monthly visits are cancelled. The co-parent is 250 miles away and the miles have become a wall. He calls every day. Twice a day. He talks to the belly. "Hey, baby. It's your dad. The world is a little crazy right now but you're safe in there. You just keep growing. I'll be there when you come out. I promise." I hold the phone to my belly and the baby kicks and Terrence hears the rustle of my shirt against the phone and says, "Was that a kick?" and I say, "Yeah," and the kick through the phone through the shirt through the distance is the most connected we can be right now and it has to be enough.

I made spring vegetable pasta. Again. The year-closing tradition. The same recipe — penne, asparagus, peas, lemon, garlic, parmesan. Year one: Antioch, alone, watching light. Year two: Hermitage, new, watching light. Year three: Hermitage, settled, Terrence on the couch. Year four: Hermitage, pregnant, pandemic, kids at the table, Terrence on the phone, Mama on the other phone, the world in lockdown, and the pasta on the plate and the light through the window and the tradition that doesn't care about viruses or geography or the fact that everything is different because the pasta is the same. The pasta is always the same. Year four. Done. Onward. Into whatever 2020 is going to be. Always onward. The Mitchell way. The only way.

This is the recipe. The one I come back to every year without negotiating with myself about it — lemon, butter, bright spring vegetables, parmesan, done. Year four looked nothing like I planned: no Mama at the table, no Terrence on the couch, just me and the kids and two phones and a window full of April light. But the pasta doesn’t ask what year it is, and honestly, that’s exactly why I needed it. If you’re looking for the thing that stays the same when everything else doesn’t, this is it.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 30 min | Total Time: 45 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

12 oz penne or linguine pasta
1 (14 oz) can artichoke hearts, drained and quartered
1 medium fennel bulb, thinly sliced, fronds reserved
3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
3 cloves garlic, minced
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
Zest and juice of 1 large lemon
1/2 cup dry white wine or vegetable broth
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (optional)
1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese, plus more for serving
1/4 cup fresh parsley, roughly chopped
Kosher salt and black pepper to taste

Instructions

Roast the vegetables. Preheat oven to 425°F. Toss the artichoke hearts and sliced fennel with 2 tablespoons olive oil, salt, and pepper on a rimmed baking sheet. Spread in a single layer and roast for 20–25 minutes, turning once, until edges are golden and caramelized.
Cook the pasta. Bring a large pot of well-salted water to a boil. Cook pasta according to package directions until al dente. Before draining, reserve 1 cup of pasta cooking water. Drain and set aside.
Build the sauce. While pasta cooks, heat the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add garlic and red pepper flakes (if using) and cook, stirring, for about 1 minute until fragrant. Pour in the white wine or broth and let it simmer for 2 minutes. Add butter and stir until melted and sauce is slightly thickened.
Combine. Add the drained pasta to the skillet along with the lemon zest, lemon juice, and 1/3 cup of the reserved pasta water. Toss well to coat, adding more pasta water as needed to loosen the sauce to your liking.
Finish and serve. Fold in the roasted artichokes and fennel. Remove from heat and stir in the Parmesan and fresh parsley. Taste and adjust salt and pepper. Divide among bowls and garnish with reserved fennel fronds and additional Parmesan.

Nutrition (per serving)

Lemon Butter Pasta with Roasted Artichokes and Fennel — The Tradition That Doesn’t Care About Pandemics