Penne all’Arrabbiata

Five years since I started cooking seriously, if you count that first terrible Thanksgiving green bean casserole in 2016 as the start. I've been thinking about it because this is the last week of what is technically year five of my adult life in Seattle, and next Sunday is the anniversary of the blog, which I started without knowing I was starting anything, just needing somewhere to put the thoughts I did not know where else to put.

Kevin came up on Saturday. First visit to Capitol Hill since before the pandemic. He drove up with a cooler full of Stumptown beans and a bottle of kombucha he made himself (he has a kombucha phase now, which I am charitable about) and we spent the entire day in the kitchen. I made naengmyeon — cold buckwheat noodles in icy broth, technically summer food but I didn't care — and Kevin made himself useful by slicing cucumber paper-thin in the way he has learned from YouTube because of course he has. We ate standing at the counter because the condo table is only big enough for two and we were three, counting the dog he did not bring (Scout is still a year away from entering our lives).

Kevin and I do not talk about the search. He knows I submitted. He knows I am waiting. He has not asked for updates and I have not volunteered. There is a kind of careful sibling choreography around this — he has made his decision to not look, and I have made mine to look, and we protect each other's decision by not pressing on it. At dinner he said, out of nowhere, "If it goes bad, I'm here." I said, "I know." He said, "And if it goes good, I'm still here. Just differently." I love my brother. He is the most broken and most whole person I know.

James and Kevin like each other in the way that men who are both quiet in different ways like each other — they make small talk about coffee equipment and Seattle traffic and then they go long stretches of comfortable silence. James told me after Kevin left, "Your brother is doing well." I said, "I know." He said, "I don't think he knows it yet." I said, "He knows. He just doesn't trust it." That is the difference between sober Kevin and recovered Kevin, and we are still in the former, but we are moving.

Work: my promotion packet is officially submitted. Priya walked it to Adams, our skip-level, and he signed off same-day. The calibration meetings happen in April. I have mostly stopped thinking about it. I am trying to care less about the Amazon titles as a matter of psychic hygiene.

Dr. Yoon this week: we talked about Kevin's visit. She said it was the first time she had heard me describe him as whole. She said, "That's new." I hadn't noticed I had said it. She let it sit and then said, "What does it do to you when you see him whole?" I said it made me believe, for the first time since we were children, that we were both going to be okay. Not in a vague hope way. In a watching-my-brother-chop-cucumber way.

The recipe this week is naengmyeon. Cold, tangy, spicy, restorative. A dish for survivors. A dish for siblings. A dish I made because my brother came to visit and I did not burn it.

I called this dish naengmyeon in the story because that is what I made on Saturday, and naengmyeon is what the day deserved—but the spirit of the thing, the tangy heat, the noodles eaten without ceremony, the feeling of feeding someone you love and not burning it, translates. Penne all’Arrabbiata is the weeknight version of that same impulse: a little fire, a little acid, nothing to hide behind. I keep coming back to it in the weeks after something significant happens, when I want the kitchen to do the work of saying what I can’t quite say out loud. Make it for someone you’re still figuring out how to love correctly. Eat it standing up if you need to.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 25 minutes | Total Time: 35 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

12 oz penne pasta
3 tablespoons olive oil
5 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (or more to taste)
1 can (28 oz) whole peeled San Marzano tomatoes, crushed by hand
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more for pasta water
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 cup fresh flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped
Pecorino Romano or Parmesan, for serving (optional)

Instructions

Salt and boil. Bring a large pot of heavily salted water to a boil. Cook penne according to package directions until al dente. Reserve 1/2 cup pasta water before draining.
Build the sauce. While pasta cooks, heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add garlic and red pepper flakes. Cook, stirring frequently, until garlic is fragrant and just beginning to turn golden at the edges, about 2—3 minutes. Do not let it burn.
Add tomatoes. Pour in the crushed tomatoes with their juices. Season with salt and black pepper. Stir to combine and bring to a simmer. Cook uncovered, stirring occasionally, until the sauce thickens and the oil begins to pool on the surface, about 15 minutes.
Combine. Add the drained penne to the skillet. Toss to coat, adding splashes of reserved pasta water as needed to loosen the sauce and help it cling to the pasta.
Finish and serve. Remove from heat. Stir in fresh parsley. Taste and adjust salt or red pepper. Divide into bowls and top with grated Pecorino Romano if desired. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Penne all’Arrabbiata — The Noodle Dish for Siblings and Survivors