Roasted New Jersey Tomatoes & Pappardelle Pasta
There are weeks when my hormones stage a full-blown coup—bloody, ruthless, unapologetic. PMS doesn’t knock politely; it kicks the door down like a mob boss demanding blood, chocolate, bread, and maybe a sacrificial lamb.
And honestly? I’m not negotiating.
I don’t want enlightenment, productivity, or some Pinterest bitch’s pastel quote about balance.
Namaste on, sweetheart—but I’m about to namaSTAY in my kitchen and eat like a woman possessed.
This is survival season. The time for carby-comfort food that hits like foreplay—zesty, messy, dripping with flavor—and if it leaves a little sauce on my lips, all the better.
That’s when I thank God (and my poor life choice that led me here) for being back in Jersey. Say what you will about this state, but the produce delivers the kind of comfort Midol could only dream of. You haven’t lived until you’ve sunk your teeth into a Jersey tomato during the dogs days of summer. The northeast doesn’t just grow vegetables, — it breeds therapy disguised as produce.
So, I leaned into my Jersey Girl roots and roasted produced until their skins split — just like my pants at the last family reunion while “boogie oogie-ing” to the Electric Slide.
The peppers gave in and collapsed, the garlic turned soft, hot, and sticky, like the slut she is. And then suddenly my whole kitchen smelled like an after-hours confessional.
Then I pureed the veggies in my Ninja Food Processor right before being tossed with sloppy wide ribbons of pappardelle, this wasn’t just dinner — it was foreplay. Because sometimes, the only way to wrestle your hormones into silence is to choke them with carbs until they shut the fuck up.
Farm Fresh Veggies!!
~ Ingredients ~
6–8 ripe Jersey tomatoes (or the freshest you can find)
2 red bell peppers, halved and seeded
1 green bell pepper. halved and seeded
1 white medium onion, quartered
Whole Garlic Head
4 tbsp olive oil
Salt + black pepper to taste
Fresh thyme, basil, or parsley for garnish
~ Directions ~
Preheat Oven 400 Degrees
On a sheet pan, toss the tomatoes, peppers, onion, and garlic with olive oil, salt, and pepper. Spread everything out in a single layer.
**Best place in Monmouth County, New Jersey for produce is Dearborn Farms on rt 35- Holmdel, NJ.
Roast for 30–35 minutes, until veggies are soft, tomatoes burst, and peppers are slightly charred.
Transfer everything to a blender or food processor, blend until smooth.
Taste and adjust seasoning. If sauce is too thick, add a splash of pasta water later.
Meanwhile, cook pappardelle in salted boiling water according to package instructions. Reserve ½ cup pasta water before draining.
Toss pasta with the sauce, loosening with reserved water if needed until it clings like silk.
Garnish with basil, fresh parsley, parmesan cheese, or nothing at all because sometimes simplicity slaps.
Serve in a bowl large enough to piss off anyone who believes in portion control.
Charred and looking delightful!
There’s no delicate way to eat pappardelle. It’s wide, messy, unapologetic — like me on day two of PMS when I say “just one bite” and then raw-dog the entire pot with zero shame. This isn’t restraint. It’s survival porn.
Cooking when life is chaos isn’t about perfection — it’s about Jersey tomatoes splitting wide open, pasta going limp just right, and sauce clinging to you like an ex who doesn’t understand boundaries. PMS won’t disappear just because you stuffed it with carbs, but it does shut up long enough to let me feel almost human instead of a demon in my COMFRT LOUNGEWEAR.
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Sometimes, you don’t need Cabernet. Sometimes, you don’t need company. You just need sauce that stains your tits, carbs that go down easy, and the kind of fresh Jersey produce that makes you forget you almost bitched out a stranger for chewing wrong.
Until next time…
