It started because the butter was soft.
I wasn’t planning on dinner—not a real one. Mae was supposed to be out late, and I’d already eaten toast (burnt, obviously). But I walked past the counter and pressed a thumb into the butter out of habit. It left a dent. A sigh. The kind of softness that means use me now. And that was it. That was the beginning.
Also—I’d had a headache since noon and this kind of pasta, it’s less about eating and more about melting.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness’s Alfredo is exactly what you think it is. Two sticks of butter, a snowfall of Parmesan, fettuccine that’s been coddled in salted water and whispered into silk by a splash of pasta water.
There’s no garlic. No cream. Just the big boys—fat and salt and heat.
It’s serious, but not fussy. You beat the butter and cheese together like a frosting (which felt perverse and perfect). Then toss it all with hot noodles and a prayer.
I imagine her eating it with a silver fork and a cloth napkin. I ate mine with the serving tongs, barefoot, standing by the stove.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have freshly grated Parmesan. Just the tired bag in the fridge that had hardened into clumps at the corners. I broke it up with a fork. It worked.
Also—my butter was salted. She’d probably clutch pearls over that, but honestly, it saved me a step.
And I added black pepper before I tasted it, which I always do. My dad used to do that. Said some things are better pre-seasoned by instinct.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The pasta water hissed like rain on the roof—same sound.
I was beating the butter and cheese in the green Pyrex bowl (the one I’ve had since college, still slightly warped on one side) when Mae called. I let it ring. I knew it was about the English essay. I didn’t want to talk about metaphors. I wanted to eat one.
The pasta clumped. I panicked. Added more water. Stirred too fast. It spattered. It didn’t matter.
I tapped the dented Dutch oven with the spoon again—once, absentmindedly. Then twice, like I meant it.
I don’t always notice I’m doing that. But it feels like knocking on a door I already know is closed.
Anyway—the sauce came together. It went from stubborn to soft, all at once. Like a fight giving up.
I didn’t plate it. I didn’t garnish. I just forked it straight from the bowl and let the heat find the corners of me that the toast hadn’t reached.
A Few Things I Learned
If you beat butter and cheese together with enough force, it starts to look like a decision.
Hot pasta fixes things. Not everything. But enough.
Also—pepper early is still pepper right.
What I Did With the Extras
There weren’t any. I scraped the bowl with the back of a spoon and thought about licking it. I didn’t. But I thought about it.
Would I Make It Again?
If the butter’s soft and the house is too quiet—yes.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The bowl was still warm when I put it in the sink.
Didn’t wash it right away. Didn’t need to.
It was quiet enough to leave things be.
If you want something warmer, I did a cheesy potato mess last week you might like. Not the same mood. But same kind of comfort.
FAQs
Yeah. Spaghetti works. Penne’s weird but fine. I tried it once when Mae had a meltdown over fettuccine “feeling like worms.”
Kinda. It thickens up like a regret, but a splash of water and a low pan heat brings it back. Just don’t microwave it. Feels wrong.
Not unless you’re heavy-handed with the cheese. I used salted butter and still wanted more salt. So—trust your tongue.
Technically no. Emotionally yes. It makes the sauce smoother and gives you a moment to take your frustration out on dairy.
Of course. Her Highness didn’t, but I’ve done it when I needed the kitchen to smell like my dad’s hands again. Crushed it straight into the bowl.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart Lemon Pound Cake
- Martha Stewart Vanilla Pound Cake Recipe
- Martha Stewart Pumpkin Cheesecake
- Martha Stewart Potatoes Au Gratin
Martha Stewart Alfredo Fettuccine
Description
Creamy, clingy, and weirdly emotional. I didn’t expect that. But I didn’t stop either.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Boil the pasta: Start with a big pot of salted water—taste it, it should feel like the ocean—but quieter. Drop in the fettuccine and let it cook until it bends without arguing. I think it was around 12 minutes, but I was staring out the window by then.
- Make the butter-cheese base: In a big bowl (my warped green Pyrex, still stained from that blueberry thing), beat the soft butter with the Parmesan until it looks like cheesy frosting. Don’t taste it. Or do. I did. No regrets.
- Save the pasta water: Before you drain the noodles, scoop out at least a cup of that cloudy, salty water. It’s not just water—it’s glue, magic, emotional support. You’ll need it.
- Mix it all together: While the pasta’s still hot, toss it right into the butter-cheese mess. Add a splash (¼ cup?) of pasta water. Stir like you mean it. It’ll seize up at first—then go soft. Add more water if it’s stubborn. It’s not supposed to feel dry. It’s supposed to feel like a silk slip.
- Season and serve: Crack in some black pepper—more than you think. Taste for salt. Heap it into a bowl. Eat it standing up if the day’s been long. I did.