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There’s something about making anything from scratch that feels like an accomplishment, ranging from the simple, like pancakes, to the complex, like butter. Worn like a badge of honour, “from scratch” carries the weight of experience and dedication, of time spent trying to make something you could easily buy in a store, and make it well! “Made from scratch”, I’ve always felt, is also a synonym for “made with love”. The idea that someone would go above and beyond to create something that’s available for a few euros right there in the supermarket really says something, and for me, that something is nothing less than “I love you”.

If you asked anyone close to me to list my defining personality traits, my guess is you’ll be met with a mélange of purist, stubborn, obsessive, specific, predictable and probably, let’s be honest, dramatic, which I believe makes me the perfect candidate for all things “from scratch”.

During my Covid quarantine, with two new cookbooks to keep me company, I start to dream about the things I’ll eventually taste again (which thankfully I now do!) and the things I’ll make from their pages. I think about how I’ll up my game, having honed my version of sunshine pasta and with a couple of roast chickens under my belt, it’s time to graduate from the sea of storebought.

As I hungrily leaf through Flavour (a thoughtful gift from the incomparable Tala Soubra) my eyes keep returning to Ottolenghi’s saffron pasta recipe (which I am yet to make). However, the reason this recipe bores a hole in my brain and my soul is not because of its promises of mouthwatering saffron (which I cannot resist), but because it will require me to enter a bold new frontier of cooking, a.k.a. From Scratch.

During this very quarantine, a fellow home-chef and close confidante casually shares the news that he will be making pasta from scratch, that very day, and for around ten people no less! No pomp or circumstance, no hours and days of academic research, no conflicting or contrasting advice from the Internet to sift through — I am amazed. (To explain how he’s able to do this, know that he is quite simply much cooler than me; his defining personality traits being reliable, easy-going, funny, flexible, and patient.)

Relying on his instinct as a baker, and his technical prowess when it comes to making things, he simply gets on with it; mixing, kneading, rolling, and boiling, producing an enviable feast in under two hours, and with not one, but two, made “from scratch” sauces too.

(Not mine) No big deal, just his first casual batch of fettuccine…

Rocket pesto on the left, *Pomodoro* sauce on the right, both from scratch

I am in awe. And as my eyes flicker over his post-pasta messages, which undramatically mention how “easy” it was, and how “fun” it will be for me when I attempt to do it, I zoom in on the pictures obsessively, poring over them for hints that it is his first time. I find none. Contemplating his success, and feeling slightly competitive, I experience a mixture of faux confidence and complete fear. I suddenly have a vision that I can and will be able to do this, and at that moment I know that nothing can come between me and my attempt to make pasta “from scratch”.

Almost one month later, and on the eve of Valentine’s Day to be exact, the moment feels right. If cooking “from scratch” is an act of love then there is no better time than to finally give it a go—To me, Love me.

I have mixed feelings about Stuff. On the one hand, I have wishlists and abandoned carts of kitchen stuff. Pots and pans, grinders and graters, appliances and gadgets, salad spinners and sieves; my desires are a bottomless pit. I once mused that a registry is the real reason one should get married, and wondered if I should pursue the endeavour merely for the promise of a KitchenAid mixer, Breville coffeemaker, and/or a SMEG blender. (I’m still torn.)

On the other hand, I am also an ardent believer in the democratisation of home cooking: accessible ingredients, easily available pots and gadgets, and as little fuss as possible. So while I am in love with my Le Creuset dutch oven, I also believe that a good recipe does not require it in order to be excellent.

Isn’t she lovely? Welcome home Atlas 150.

In the case of making pasta, unless you’re one of my most special heroes, the Pasta Grannies, or a professional chef, then a pasta roller is a must. (Otherwise, I cannot take any responsibility for your enjoyment or ability to make pasta.) The alternative is a rolling pin, elbow grease, and mastering the technique.

(If you are a pasta granny, welcome to my newsletter! Please subscribe and tell all the other pasta grannies about me!)

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But I digress. A pasta roller is a must, as I said, and my advice is that you really don’t need anything fancy here and that you should buy the most affordable one you can get your hands on. In my case, I got the first one I could find in stock, realising after much perusing that pasta-making probably enjoyed a similar renaissance as bread-baking did during the Corona Times, making it harder to find the tools and ingredients you need.

Once you’ve got your hands on one, the only other things you need are the freshest eggs you can get and a bag of flour, preferably 00 Italian (in my case, luckily the very last bag at Casa Delizia in the first district of Vienna, gratefully foraged in the back by a charming gentleman who also made me a much-needed cappuccino.)

For my first time, and after extensive research, I decide to make a filled pasta, as opposed to a long pasta. The choice is clear to me, fearing the clumping and sticking that may occur when configuring a nest of fettuccine, and seeing how easy the plop-and-fold technique of ravioli is. As for the filling itself, I opt for a restaurant favourite, ricotta and spinach which is, in the end, better than any I’ve had in any restaurant! Yay me.

I have long been a fan of show-not-tell, so in the true spirit of that, here is my step-by-step (at least the steps I was able to stop and photograph) guide to making pasta, from scratch.