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The Pasta Files: Episode Two

Can one recipe lead to so much more? The WTG team investigates.

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This article is part of an ongoing series at Wheretoget called The Pasta Files. Read all about the recipe we tested and the second experiment from one of our Wheretoget editors, as part of a week-long installment of accounts that will be released over the next few days. 

What gets a bunch of fashion editors excited about cooking and carbs? The promise of some activity outside of the kitchen. That’s right, there's a recipe that [allegedly] not only tastes good, but has the one and only aftertaste a person could look forward to. When we got word of a penne vodka that could, at first bite, send the pants right off of the lucky person you serve it to, we thought this would be the moment for an experiment. Our realm of expertise lies more in the area of lingerie and little black dresses, but this recipe got us wanting to slip outside of comfort zones and into something a little more saucy. 



Effectiveness of recipe: Ineffective 
Quality of experience:  Poor to Average 
Taste Rating (Scale of 1 - 10): 
8
Reflection: 
I told my mom (yes, my mom) that I was going to try something new for dinner when my boyfriend came in to town that night: Sexy Pasta. Was it supposed to taste unbelievable or something? I said it didn’t matter. It’s supposed to be magic.
 
A step-by-step recipe to get you in the mood was a new concept for me, not so much my mother. "That’s like the Better Than Sex Cake from the eighties," she said, "they said it was 'better than Robert Redford.'" I didn’t ask her if she thought it was. But apparently every generation needs their cheat-sheet aphrodisiac.
 
So I focused on my goal: to get my boyfriend — who had just gotten over bronchitis and was returning from a distant relative’s funeral — really, really turned on. In any case, I told myself that this was out of my hands; it was a task at the mercy of the Italian pasta gods.
 
Still, I lit some candles and shaved my thighs. It couldn’t hurt.
 
When he cancelled last minute, I still took it as a cosmic sign to polish off my bottle of wine. He’d make it up to me. Tomorrow he’d come over for a long, lazy lunch. Could he bring anything? No. Absolutely not. “Just yourself," I said, failing really, really hard to sound nonchalant.
 
I cannot emphasize the ‘lazy’ element of the following day’s lunch enough.
 
As it turns out, carbohydrates, alcohol, and rain are the perfect combination for the opposite of sexy time: constipation and some Netflix. I tried to move the party to the bed, but it just turned into a short Frasier marathon (which definitely killed any hope of at least getting to some hand action, let alone anything beyond). Note: there was some mutual belly rubbing.
 
The pasta tasted, well, like pasta. I thought it was damn good, aside from the fact that I over-cooked it to death and everything ended up looking like the contents of a pig trough.
 
Finally, I came clean and told him my plans. He’s going to see some crazy in my eyes, I thought. He just laughed. Nor was he shocked at the idea of my spiking his meal. Maybe it’s because he’s French and half of his blood supply is red wine anyway.
 
But I am an American. And later, I’ll head to my night class with the sweet memento of garlic and vodka on my breath. 
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