*gnocchi gnitty gritty.

I don't know, friends. I don't know why the more tired I am, the harder it is to sleep. I don't know why J gets up every. single. time. the doorbell rings on TV, even though I have not now, nor ever, owned a functioning doorbell. I don't know why installing a sump pump under your house can suddenly inspire your yard to fill with water. I certainly don't know why this



became this.



And I don't know why the Italians are so freaking smart. You think pasta is good? You think potatoes are good? Only the Italians would put two and two together (which reminds me. I also do not know why I can quote entire episodes of The Golden Girls, but I can't perform simple mathematical equations. That, though, is one for the ages).



Rachael Ray, eat your heart out. This was a 12-minute proposition, max. A potato, flour, an egg, salt. That's it! AND, because I let Giada lead the way, I got to cook the potato in the microwave. Seven minutes, then its golden flesh mixed with a smidge of flour, salt, and a few tablespoons of beaten egg. And guess what I got from that? You wouldn't believe it if I told you.



DOUGH! I'm saying! It actually came together to form dough! I was speechless. I know, you are, too. Let's have a moment of silence. For potato dough and for the mental health of pop starlets everywhere.



I rolled out the dough (skills I retain from preschool), cut it into 1-inch lengths, and then, as directed, rolled it along the tines of a fork for the making of dimples.



And that is the bad picture of said dimples. I don't trust a food that starts out with dimples. It doesn't bode well for one's thighs. But I threw caution to the wind and gnocchi in the pot, where it boiled for exactly one minute, then floated to the top, begging to be plated. Meanwhile, remember this? Look:



I knew it would come in handy! For some reason, I can't handle pesto without tomatoes. I think their fruity lightness mitigates the oily sauce. They also make things ever so pretty.



Starchy and salty and sweet. And half a batch of dough in the fridge, begging for some brown butter. Take that, soured-laundry-flavored parsnips.