Spaghetti Aglio e Olio

I took a double shift at the ER this week because Kendra called in sick and we were short-staffed, which is the permanent condition of every ER in America but feels personal when it happens on a Tuesday in July when the sunlight lasts until 11 PM and I should be outside, grilling, living, existing in the finite summer that Alaska offers and I keep trading for fluorescent lights and blood draws.

The shift was hard. A car accident on the Seward Highway — three teenagers, one critical, two scared and bleeding and asking for their parents. I held the critical one's hand while we waited for the surgeon. She was seventeen. She had acrylic nails — purple, with little stars on them — and I held her hand and the acrylic nails dug into my palm and I let them because the digging was connection and the connection was what she needed while her body decided whether to stay or go. She stayed. She went to surgery. I don't know what happened after. I never know what happens after. The ER is a room of beginnings and I live in the not-knowing of every ending.

I came home at 2 AM and Jason was asleep and the apartment was dark except for the stove light he always leaves on for me — the small, amber light that says someone is here, someone waited, someone remembered that you come home in the dark and need a light to find your way to the kitchen. I stood in the kitchen in the stove light and ate leftover pancit cold from the container and the noodles were soft and the vegetables were limp and it was the best thing I'd ever eaten because I was alive and the seventeen-year-old with the purple acrylic nails was alive and the stove light was on.

Four weeks. Four more weeks of the stove light. Then the light stays off. Then I come home to dark. I'm not ready for the dark. I've had enough dark — Alaskan dark, the darkness of four-hour days in December, the darkness of the kitchen floor in 2016, the darkness behind my eyes when the nightmares come. I don't need more dark. I need the stove light. I need the boots by the door. I need four more weeks and then I need to figure out how to leave the light on for myself.

The pancit was cold. The night was long. The stove light was amber and warm and shaped exactly like love.

Pancit was what Jason had made — and pancit is what carried me through that night — but the spirit of it is really just this: noodles, a little garlic, something warm made with care and left for someone who needs it. Spaghetti aglio e olio is the recipe I come back to when I need to make something ahead that will hold, something that doesn’t demand to be eaten hot, something that says I thought about you before you even walked in the door. It’s as close as an Italian kitchen gets to a Filipino one at 2 AM, and right now, close is enough.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

12 oz spaghetti
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
6 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes (or to taste)
1/2 cup reserved pasta cooking water
1/4 cup fresh flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more for pasta water
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan or Pecorino Romano (optional)

Instructions

Boil the pasta. Bring a large pot of heavily salted water to a boil. Cook spaghetti according to package directions until just al dente. Before draining, scoop out at least 1/2 cup of the starchy pasta water and set aside. Drain the pasta.
Toast the garlic. While pasta cooks, heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium-low heat. Add the sliced garlic and red pepper flakes. Cook slowly, stirring frequently, for 4–6 minutes until the garlic is golden and fragrant but not browned. Watch it closely — burned garlic will turn bitter.
Bring it together. Add the drained pasta directly to the skillet with the garlic oil. Pour in 1/4 cup of the reserved pasta water and toss vigorously over medium heat for 1–2 minutes, adding more pasta water a splash at a time until the sauce is glossy and clings to the noodles.
Finish and season. Remove from heat. Toss in the fresh parsley, salt, and black pepper. Taste and adjust seasoning. Add grated cheese if using.
Serve or store. Serve immediately, or transfer to a container and refrigerate. This pasta holds beautifully cold — drizzle with a little extra olive oil before eating straight from the container if that’s where the night takes you.

Nutrition (per serving)

Spaghetti Aglio e Olio — The Noodles That Were Waiting When I Got Home