Peter McKay

When my six-year-old daughter Catherine is acting up, all I have to say is "Knock it off, or Daddy's gonna make pasta!" She actually likes pasta. (Other than peanut butter and jelly or bologna and cheese, it's the only food she will eat.) It's my making it that scares her.

It started a few months ago, when we ordered a new pasta maker. We've had them in the past, mostly ordered off of Saturday infomercials, but they have always burned out after a couple of months. This time, my wife ordered a brand of pasta maker from Italy at the recommendation of an Italian friend. This woman had been through five or six of them, but only because she seems to make more pasta than Chef Boyardee. She did, however, give us a warning. "Don't make it too dry," she said, pointing her finger at us (really, just at me.)

For those who have never seen one, a pasta maker performs two functions: First, it kneads together semolina flour and eggs, and second, once the mix is just right (which can take around fifteen minutes) it is switched to extrude mode, in which it presses the dough, under high pressure, through a disk-shaped dye. The pasta is really very good. Almost good enough to justify the fact that it takes around a half hour of monotonous watching and waiting.

One evening, tired of waiting for the dough to get to the right consistency, I decided to just extrude a little after only three minutes of mixing. The dough looked a bit dry, but I threw in a tablespoon of water to compensate.

As the pasta maker began to wind into extrude mode, I turned to get a plate. The motor on the machine began to emit straining noises, while at the same time, the machine housing gave off an ominous cracking sound. Suddenly, the collar on the front of the machine exploded, sending plastic flying in all directions. The metal disk shot out of the machine like a rocket, stopping only when it hit poor Catherine square in the chest. Catherine, who eats very little, weighs less than the pasta machine itself, and the force of the impact knocked her off her seat at the kitchen table and flat on her back.

I ran across the kitchen, certain that I had killed my daughter, and trying to remember what little I knew of CPR.

My wife got there first and helped Catherine, who had a crossed-eyed confused look on her face, sit up. My wife looked at me accusingly. "I think the pasta was just a little too dry," she said icily.

After our initial scare, we found that Catherine's only serious injuries were a round pasta-disk shaped welt on her chest and a tendency to duck at any sudden noises in the kitchen.

After that, it became the rule in our house that everyone had to clear the kitchen while Daddy made pasta. Our kids came to think of the pasta maker as a hazardous menace, sort of like a countertop Three Mile Island. Last month, as the three littlest kids sat around the kitchen table watching Nickelodeon, I gave my customary yell that Daddy was about to extrude (I know, it sounds gross) and that everyone had to clear the decks. I stood at the machine, a metal spatula in hand, ready to cut the pasta as it came out. Two of the kids reacted quickly, hopping from their seats and running into the hall. Unbeknownst to me, Catherine remained at the table, too entranced by "Sponge Bob Square Pants" to sense the impending danger.

Suddenly, the pasta maker revved up, the whining motor a sign that too much pressure was building. In horror, I reached forward to turn off the motor. It was too late. With a loud crack, the collar on the dye gave way, and the metal disk shot out into the room, directly in Catherine's direction.

The disk never made it. In a stroke of (uncommon) luck, the disk hit my metal spatula and, with a loud clang, ricocheted up toward the ceiling, denting the drywall before falling harmlessly to the floor.

I turned around in a panic to make sure the kids were all OK. Jack and Olivia were peering round the corner, eager to survey the damage.

Catherine, however, was curled up in a ball under the table. I ran over, afraid that she had been hit by a piece of shrapnel. I tried to pull her out, but she resisted, crying out, "Too dry! Too dry!"

I have had no further problems with the pasta maker since that night. Mostly because now we eat store-bought spaghetti.

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