Miniature bow ties. Rotini. Penne. Macaroni. Linguine, fettuccine, spaghetti, spaghettini, angel hair. You name a kind of pasta, and I’ve tried it. Probably more than once. A lot more than once. I’ve been living in my own house, with no one but my weakened conscience to tell me what to eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for two years. When I wake in the morning, I’m greeted by last night’s pasta pot, gleaming seductively at me from the stove. When I open the refrigerator, at least three kinds of Parmesan cheese leer back at me. And when I open the pantry, seeking relief, boxes upon boxes of pasta await me. Usually, I manage to avoid temptation until lunch. But there are some days when 10 am finds me staring at the stovetop with the intensity of a starving hyena. It’s not true that a watched pot never boils – they do boil.

They just take too. Goddamn. Long.

My friends who have yet to live on their own see my state of pasta-induced psychosis as something to aspire to. Living only on what the campus dining hall or your well-meaning and health-conscious parents provides you can make you desperate, and the thought of being able to cook whatever you want seems a respite from the seemingly endless desert of steamed broccoli and dry hamburgers. But my roommates and others who live on their own know the truth. They come home from the grocery store bearing environmentally friendly canvas bags full of vegetables and fruit, of frozen white fish and lean chicken, only to be confronted with the sight of me hunched over the stove like some sort of noodle sorceress, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon and breathing steam. I look up from my concoction and smile and them. They wave back uncomfortably and wait for me to leave.

The type of pasta I choose to cook is related directly to how long I’m willing to wait. Angel hair, spaghettini, and spaghetti take six to nine minutes to be cooked to my liking, while penne, rotini, and fettuccine can take upwards of ten minutes. The timing of the whole process must be exact. While the pasta is cooking, I remove a bowl and utensils from the cupboard, select the correct type of Parmesan from the refrigerator. Once the timer sounds, I drain the pasta over the sink. Never use a colander to drain pasta. Yes, it’s easier; yes, it’s safer; yes, you’re less likely to lose precious noodles down the drain or sear your hand with a splash of boiling water. But do you really want to eat dry, sticky noodles that no amount of butter will make smooth and delicious again? I think not. Once the pasta is drained, you have precisely sixty seconds to mix in butter, pour the pasta into your chosen bowl, coat it liberally with Parmesan, and begin to eat. Any longer and the pasta may begin to get cold. This is an abomination that you cannot allow.

Any trip to the grocery store involves a detour down the pasta aisle, even if the pantry at home is fully stocked. As I trawl the aisle, dodging hapless shoppers, I feel like a survivalist, hoarding food for the inevitable apocalypse. When the apocalypse comes, my friends with their fresh fruit and vegetables will see their folly. They will repent for the times they mocked me, the times they whispered behind my back, the times they drew pictures of me slowly morphing into a giant noodle. They will lament that they ever mocked my incessant noodle-devouring. But pasta is a forgiving thing. It will always welcome the lost and hungry back into its starchy embrace.

Whether I will share my vast stores of noodles, however, is another matter.