Alfredo and Lonely Nights

Comfort doesn't always come from people. Sometimes it comes from a pan.

There’s something about creamy pasta that makes me feel held—even when no one’s around to actually hold me.

I don’t make Alfredo pasta when I’m celebrating or energized. I make it when I’m empty. Quiet. Needing something warm and rich to remind me I still deserve softness.

It starts with garlic sizzling in butter—just enough to perfume the kitchen with a promise. Then comes the milk or cream, swirling like sleep. I stir slowly. I taste often. I don’t rush.

The shells ( conchiglie ) boil while my thoughts spiral, and sometimes I talk to myself while waiting. Not in full sentences, just in small hums and sighs.

By the time it’s ready, the sauce clings to everything—no sharp edges, no harshness. Just white, soft, and heavy.

Some nights I eat it on the floor. Some nights in bed.

I don’t always plate it nicely. Sometimes I eat from the pan with a big spoon, watching videos I won’t remember.

But it works. It always works.

Alfredo is not exciting. It’s not trendy.

But it feels like forgiveness in food form.

It says, “You don’t have to explain. Just eat.”

There’s no recipe for comfort. But if I had to guess, it probably starts with butter, a little garlic, and no one asking how you’re doing until you’re ready to answer.