Nicholas is still hunting for a mozzarella replacement. It’s no use. We have nothing. He gives up and eyes my pasta with resignation. “Farfaccine, eh?” “A traditional Italian dish passed on from grandmother to grandmother.” It smells like raw sewage. “Maybe if it were creamier?” he says helpfully. “Looks a little dry.” We’re out of milk, so we do something dubious here and dump in half a cup of coffee creamer. It does look better afterward, even if the foul smell intensifies. Nicholas gets cocky and adds a sprinkling of pink Himalayan salt.
