A zesty fish supper and a pudding good enough to eat for breakfast
Little pasta is cooked in this house in the summer months. Most of my favourites are sleeping quietly in their storage jars in the cupboard: the varieties that hold sauce in their nooks and crannies; the wide, beefy ribbons of pappardelle that tangle their way through a ragu sauce, and the sheets of dried lasagne, which have been in their box all summer.
When the weather is warm I prefer the tiny beads of fregola, like little pills in shades of brown and cream, or orzo, or the fine, thinnest of noodles. Sauces, if you can call them that, tend to be cooking juices or stocks, or simply olive oil and lemon. There is not a cream sauce in sight.
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