5:42 — keys in the door. James runs to me. He is wearing one sock. This is not a new development; he has been one-socked since approximately 3pm according to my best reconstruction of events. I do not ask about the sock.

5:43 — pot on the stove. Large pot, because the mistake people make with pasta is using a pot that's too small and the pasta clumps. Enough water to cover a pound of pasta by three inches. Lid on.

5:44 — James has taken off his remaining sock and is now barefoot and asking me why water is "slippery." I do not have an answer to this. I tell him it's because of science.

5:45 — I open the cabinet. We have pasta. We have three kinds of pasta, actually, because I buy pasta whenever I forget we have pasta, which is apparently every other week. I choose the spaghetti. I check the back of the cabinet for what sauce situation we're in. There's a jar of marinara, some olive oil, some garlic, a can of tuna I'm not going to use, and half a jar of sun-dried tomatoes that have been there long enough that I'm not going to use those either. We're doing the garlic and olive oil situation: 15-Minute Pantry Pasta. Three ingredients, ten minutes, everyone eats.

5:46 — Audrey comes into the kitchen and asks what's for dinner. I say pasta. She asks if it's "the kind with the sauce that's too red." I say no. She accepts this.

5:47 — I peel four garlic cloves. This is the one moment of actual knife work: smash with the side of the knife, peel, slice thin. Takes ninety seconds. James is now sitting on the kitchen floor watching me with the specific focus of a person who plans to touch the garlic.

5:48 — Water is not boiling yet. This is normal. Water takes longer than you think. I go check on Sam, who is finishing a work thing at the kitchen table. She says "almost done." I say "pasta in fifteen." She gives me a thumbs up without looking up.

5:51 — Water is boiling. Salt goes in — enough that it tastes like the sea, which is a phrase I learned from a cooking video and it's accurate, you want it genuinely salty, not a polite pinch. Pasta goes in. I don't break the spaghetti. James, watching, asks why I don't break it. I explain that you push it in as it softens. He considers this information. "Like a snake?" Sure. Like a snake.

5:52 — Small pan on the stove. Olive oil, medium heat. Garlic in. This is the moment I cannot leave: garlic in oil goes from "perfect" to "bitter disaster" in about forty-five seconds once it starts sizzling. I stand there. I watch it. It turns light gold.

5:53 — Red pepper flakes in. Ten seconds. Ladle of pasta water in — this is the move, the pasta water has starch in it and it makes the whole thing silky instead of oily. Turn heat to low.

5:54 — James has taken off his pants. I don't know when this happened. He's standing in the kitchen in a shirt and underwear looking pleased with himself. I tell him to put them back on. He disappears.

5:55 — I check the pasta. It needs two more minutes. The package says nine to eleven; at seven minutes it's still got a little resistance which is what you want because it's going to keep cooking in the pan. I taste a strand. Still a little too firm. Two more minutes.

5:57 — I call Audrey to set the table. She negotiates this. She will set the table but she will not be in charge of the forks because last time James "breathed on a fork" and she had to get a new one. I say fine, just plates. She goes.

5:58 — Pasta is done. I pull it with tongs directly from the water into the garlic oil pan — don't drain it, drag it, bringing along some water with it. Toss in the pan for thirty seconds, letting the pasta absorb the oil and the water emulsify into something that looks like a sauce. Parmesan grated over the top. Another ladle of pasta water, another toss.

5:59 — I put Audrey's portion in a bowl before adding parmesan, because parmesan is "too strong" and she wants it separate so she can add it herself in a specific quantity that she controls. This is fine. I add extra to mine.

6:00 — James returns. He has his pants but they are on backwards. I make the executive decision that this is acceptable.

6:01 — Sam closes her laptop. "That smells amazing." It smells like garlic and pasta and good olive oil. It does smell amazing. This is the best part of the garlic oil pasta — it's the simplest thing and it smells like you've been cooking for an hour.

6:03 — Everyone is eating. Audrey is adding parmesan in calculated increments. James is twirling spaghetti with his fork in a technique that results in a fist-sized ball he then consumes in one attempt. Sam is eating hers with the focus of someone who was hungrier than they'd mentioned.

One pound of pasta: $1.50. Olive oil and garlic: call it $0.50. Parmesan: $0.60 worth. That's $2.60 for four people. $0.65 per serving. One pot, one pan, twenty-one minutes door to table.

I didn't plan this. I walked in the door and saw water and pasta and garlic and I made the thing that takes exactly as long as the water takes to boil. The whole timing is built in — you can't rush it, but you can't be late either. You put the water on first and everything else happens in the time it takes to boil.

Audrey asked for seconds. James fell asleep in his chair before finishing, which happens sometimes and means nothing about the food. Sam said "good call on the pasta."

6:03. Keys in the door at 5:42. Twenty-one minutes.