My mum worried so much that she staged an intervention with me via FaceTime from New Zealand. "You can't survive on frozen pizza," she said. I glanced at the fig bar wrappers, cartons of chicken broth, and greasy cardboard dotted with dried pizza sauce overflowing the trash can. "We eat burgers, too," I reassured her.
Before Arthur arrived, I spent Sunday afternoons making pappardelle by hand, using "00" flour, kneading the dough with my knuckles, and rolling it out into one smooth, even layer.
