Three weeks until Ryan deploys. The countdown has started and it's the opposite of the whiteboard countdown from senior year — that one was moving toward something. This one is moving toward absence.
Ryan's been busy — pre-deployment briefings, equipment checks, training that keeps him on base until 8 PM. I eat dinner alone most nights, which is practice for what's coming. I set the table for one. I cook for one. I eat for one. And then I clean up and call Mom and she tells me what to cook tomorrow and asks how I'm feeling (the nausea is fading — twelve weeks, and the blueberry is now a lime) and says 'you're fine' and I believe her.
Jen's husband, Eric, is deploying to the same unit. So Jen and I will be deployment wives together, which is both comforting and devastating. She's done this before. She knows the drill. She said, 'The first week is the worst. After that, you find a rhythm. You HAVE to find a rhythm or you'll drown.'
Rhythm. Like dinner at 1800. Like the recipe binder. Like Mom's life for twenty-two years — a rhythm of survival, cooking, waiting, surviving.
I've been writing in the journal almost every day now. Not about the pregnancy specifically — about everything. About the apartment and the commissary and the silence and the way the base looks at sunset and the sound of boots on concrete at 0500 when Ryan leaves and I'm still in bed, pretending to sleep, listening to his footsteps because I'm memorizing them for the months when I won't hear them.
The writing is changing. It's less observational and more... felt. Less 'here's what happened' and more 'here's what it felt like.' I don't know if it's good. I don't know if it's anything. But it's honest, and Professor Kim said honest is the hardest thing to write and the most important.
Mom made me a care package. It arrived on Thursday: a box containing homemade cookies (chocolate chip, her browned-butter version), a new wooden spoon ('the one at your apartment is flimsy, Rachel'), a jar of her homemade jam (strawberry, from berries at the Norfolk farmers' market), and a note that said: 'Dinner tonight: pasta with olive oil, garlic, and parmesan. Simple. Good. You can do this. Love, Mom.'
I made the pasta. Olive oil, garlic, parmesan, a squeeze of lemon. It took ten minutes. It was perfect. Not complicated. Not impressive. Just... good. Simple and good.
Three weeks. The boots. The countdown. The pasta.
Simple. Good. I can do this.
Mom’s note said “simple and good,” and that night with olive oil and garlic and parmesan, I understood exactly what she meant — that the best food doesn’t ask you to be okay, it just feeds you anyway. This no-cook puttanesca is that same idea taken one step further: bold pantry ingredients, no heat required beyond the pasta water, and a sauce that comes together while the noodles do all the work — which is exactly the kind of dinner you need when you’re setting the table for one and practicing being fine. It’s the recipe I’ve been making on repeat since Mom’s care package arrived, and I think it’ll carry me through the months ahead.
No-Cook Puttanesca Sauce Over Pasta
Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 20 min | Servings: 2
Ingredients
- 8 oz spaghetti or linguine
- 1 can (14 oz) whole peeled tomatoes, crushed by hand
- 3 tablespoons good-quality extra-virgin olive oil
- 3 cloves garlic, minced
- 1/4 cup pitted Kalamata olives, roughly chopped
- 2 tablespoons capers, drained
- 1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes, or to taste
- 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more for pasta water
- Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
- Fresh parsley or basil, for serving (optional)
- Grated parmesan, for serving
Instructions
- Make the no-cook sauce. In a large bowl, combine the crushed tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, olives, capers, red pepper flakes, salt, and several grinds of black pepper. Stir well and let the mixture sit at room temperature while you cook the pasta — at least 10 minutes. The garlic will mellow slightly and the flavors will come together on their own.
- Cook the pasta. Bring a large pot of well-salted water to a boil. Cook spaghetti according to package directions until al dente. Before draining, reserve about 1/4 cup of the starchy pasta water.
- Combine. Drain the pasta and add it directly to the bowl with the no-cook sauce. Toss vigorously, adding a splash of the reserved pasta water to help the sauce cling. The residual heat of the noodles will warm the sauce gently without cooking it further.
- Finish and serve. Add the lemon juice and toss once more. Taste and adjust salt and red pepper flakes as needed. Divide into bowls and top with parmesan and fresh herbs if using. Eat immediately.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 520 | Protein: 14g | Fat: 18g | Carbs: 76g | Fiber: 6g | Sodium: 890mg
About the cook who shared this
Rachel Abernathy
Week 114 of Rachel’s 30-year story
· San Diego, California
Rachel is a twenty-eight-year-old Marine wife and mom of two who has moved five times in six years and learned to cook a Thanksgiving dinner with half her cookware still in boxes. She married young, survived postpartum depression, and feeds her family of four on a junior Marine's salary with a freezer full of pre-made meals and a crockpot that has never let her down. She writes for the military spouses who are cooking dinner alone in base housing and wondering if they're enough. You are.
