Rite of passage
Last weekend I got a squash that needed to be cooked, so I made this. I have to admit it came out well and makes enough to feed a small army. Now I don’t drink often. I’m not against it, but when you have parents who’re alcoholics, the fun is kind of out of it. That having been said in a sauce like the pasta recipe above, there’s no way around it, since a lot of the flavor is coming from it.
Buying alcohol is generally a risky procedure for me. At best, I have to deal with the embarrassment of my legal ID being questioned as a fake (I don’t look my 31 years.) At worst, my ID is questioned, and I’m thrown out. (Never try to buy beer for chili with a passport.) Rarely am I buying alcohol for drinking–it’s generally going into something, but one shouldn’t cook with that which one isn’t willing to drink.
So I approached the counter at Trader Joe’s with my $3 Chardonnay, a bag of tortellini, and the penne for tonight. The clerk rang me up, handed me the receipt, and I stood there. He asked me if there were something else I needed. I came out of my trance, thanked him, and went home. This would seem unremarkable, except for the fact that it’s the first time I haven’t been “carded” for alcohol in the ten years since I’ve been able to purchase it legally.
The first few times I got carded, it was cool–I was suddenly old enough to buy my own alcohol, and I got the shiny blue ID to prove it. (Under 21 ID’s/licenses in my former home state are red.) Then once I got older–around 25–it got to be annoying. I’d be out with friends, their ID would never be checked, and the waitperson would come over and ask in hushed tones if he/she could see my ID. The conversation would awkwardly stop as I’d pull the card out.
While I don’t miss the hassle, it’s oddly wistful to not be carded. Although who knows what will happen the next time a recipe calls for wine.