We interrupt our travelogue series to bring you
a not-so-brief news flash.
The ad ran in the July 4 Centre Daily
Times newspaper: Grand opening for Fasta & Ravioli Co. July 7 in
Pleasant Gap, a small town eight miles from State College: One FREE pound of fettuccini
every week for a year to the first 25 customers.
On Thursday,
I’m talking to a few of the guys at work about the promotion. Then Anthony, my
great uncle’s grandson, gives me a little insider history of the pasta company.
His childhood friend Bob majored in Hotel and Restaurant Management at PSU and
then worked at the Nittany Lion Inn. One day Bob and Anthony went into
Manhattan. Bob kept saying he wanted to check out “Eeeetaly” and Anthony
corrected him, saying, “Don’t you mean Little Italy?” Back and forth it went,
until they arrived at the storefront Eataly. At Eataly, you can buy all edible
things Italian, and, if you bring in a bottle, they’ll fill it up with
authentic olive oil or balsamic vinegar. Bob used Eataly as a model for his State
College shop, Fasta & Ravioli Co. This weekend, he officially opened his
second store offering fresh pasta with local ingredients, as well as oils,
vinegars, and other delights. “Fasta” combines the words fresh and pasta—as
well as the fact that the fettuccini, for instance, reaches “al dente” stage
only three minutes after it is added to boiling water.
I can’t resist.
On Friday I
tell Richard my plans. He offers to drive to Pleasant Gap to check things out
after his late shift at a State College bar/restaurant. He gets home from his
scouting mission around 2 a.m. and reports that the place is empty. “Well, I’m
awake. I might as well drive over,” I tell him.
“Lock your
doors.” Sounds just like his father.
I get to Fasta
at 2:26 a.m. The street is desolate. In the next 20 minutes two vehicles pass
by. I stake my territory with a lawn chair next to the front door, get back in
the car, and try to nap. Penn State had Paternoville; Pleasant Gap has
Fastaville. That Fastaville consists not of dozens of tents but a solitary
burgundy Toyota Scion makes little difference. Inside is everything I need: a
reclining seat and PSU Creamery insulated bag stuffed with supplies. A few ice
packs, water bottle, cantaloupe chunks, multigrain toast spread with cream
cheese and topped with smoked almonds, and a bag of Kettle Corn.
It’s 3:05 a.m.
The CDT delivery guy fills the vending machine near the Fasta & Ravioli Co. door with
Saturday papers.
I’m surprisingly
comfortable. I toe my sandals off, doze into a dream, and wake in a nightmare.
I lock my keys—and my sandals—in the car. The doors swing wide for the Grand
Opening but the sign says, “No Shoes, No Service”. I’m barefoot and can’t get in for my pasta.
Just a nightmare. Then another. What if I have the wrong date?
From 1969 to
1996 my mother owned a gourmet cooking shop called The Country Sampler. At home
she had every kitchen gadget and appliance known to woman. I see my parents,
shoulder to shoulder, cranking out ribbons of spinach fettuccini, sheets of
pasta, tiny cavatellis. My sister’s friend comes home for dinner. “Mrs.
Fedon,’’ Jay says, “these are be best green beans I’ve ever eaten.” No wonder, the dish was spinach fettuccini
with a cream sauce.
I have a
similar green bean story from Fleur-de-Lys. A customer comes in, slides open
the refrigerator door, and pulls out a plastic bag filled with garlic scapes.
“These are the most unusual green beans I’ve ever seen,” she says.
5:40 a.m. A
grumpy couple walks over to the newspaper rack for their Saturday morning fix.
They seem annoyed that they have to detour around my lawn chair.
5:51 a.m. A big
blue SUV pulls in next door at the M&T Bank ATM machine.
6:01 a.m. A woman arrives who is as crazy as I
am…except that she got three and a half extra hours in bed. She’s from Mill
Hall and a talker. “Have you ever had the stuff?” asks the pasta junkie. “Just
like the pasta my Italian aunt used to make. She passed away years ago. She’d
get out her wooden harp, that’s what she called it, and roll out pasta. They
got her a machine but she said, ‘Naw,’ and got out her old wooden harp and
rolled some out. Boy, was that good pasta, and this is just like hers.”
7:10 a.m. Woman
No. 3 arrives. She startles me from a deep, drooling sleep. She’s been watching
my car from her bedroom window two doors down but waited for the sun to come up
before coming down.
The morning heats up as more pasta people arrive. Those who waited too long miss
out on the First 25 deal but there is still a free pound of pasta for the first
100. The chatter continues as the line follows the shade pattern of the trees.
Bob comes out with his dad and a friend. They coach us in their traditional
opening day cheer.
They shout, “We
want” and we shout, “Ravioli”.
“We want!”
“Ravioli!”
“We want!”
Ravioli!”
“Thank you,”
they respond in polite Penn State cheerleading fashion.
“You’re
welcome,” the crowd replies. And with that, the doors open and I’m handed a
soft package of fresh fettuccini wrapped in butcher paper, the first of 52 in
my year of eating Fasta pasta. Laurie
Lynch
Garlic Harvest:
I harvested my
plantings of hard-neck garlic this week. Amazing bulb size, which I attribute
to the mild winter and summer heat. Even more amazing is the difference in soil
structure. At Fleur-de-Lys we had shale-y soil. With a little prompting of the
digging fork, the bulbs eased out of the soil. In this clay soil, I had to pry
each bulb out, circling it with the prongs of the digging fork wedged into the
ground with my foot. Each clove came out wearing a block of clay soil.
Pedal Pusher Power: July 5 was my Belgian Bicycling Independence
Day.
It started at 4
a.m. when I was lying in bed figuring out what to wear. I decided to proclaim
July 5 as business-very-casual day. After years of being my own boss at
Fleur-de-Lys, it is a habit that’s hard to break. Considering the semi-retired
CEO of the roofing company wears shorts May through November, it wasn’t a
stretch. Finally I was going to bicycle to the office in my work clothes–freedom
from a backpack stuffed with an outfit to change into—oh so very Belgique!
Then I thought
a not-so-Belgian thought. I’m going to treat myself to a To-Go cup of coffee on
the way in. (The To-Go concept is not European.) I love biking to work. Even in
this heat, it’s refreshing. When the fellows at work question how hard it is, I
tell them it actually seems like it is all down hill…both directions. But because
I leave home earlier, I miss my cup of coffee. I don’t know if it’s that or the
fact that I’m out-of-shape, but when I bike to work, I spend most of my lunch
break napping in my co-worker Sharon’s car.
So off I went,
dressed in capris (ironically, in my youth we called them pedal pushers), a
short-sleeved shirt, and flats. I stopped in at Café Lemont as it opened,
parked my bike on the sidewalk, walked in wearing my helmet (OK, so I’m a
safety nerd. I fall off bikes, remember?), and filled up my To-Go cup with lots
of milk and strong Ethiopian brew. I made it to work in plenty of time, lunch bag,
purse, and travel mug stuffed inside my flower basket. I’m ready to celebrate
my small but satisfying step to living my souvenir.
