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Garlic and White Wine Shrimp Linguine

Ingredients
Tail on Shrimp.
I prefer uncooked fresh but the commissary is sorely lacking and the nearest fishmonger is a good walk into town. So we have frozen precooked.
Linguine Pasta

Garlic
Butter
Dry White Wine

This is one of those recipes that sounds more complicated and fancy than it actually is. No amounts, really it's easy to guess. I don't measure often.

Melt butter in a pan, add chopped up garlic and sizzle for a bit. Throw in shrimp (until it basically defrosts if you're using frozen, cooked. If it's fresh then you want it to be a lovely pale pink when it's cooked.)
Put the pasta on to boil.
Add some white wine to the shrimp, bubble for a bit.

When the pasta is done, drain it and mix with the shrimp in the pan. Transfer to plates.

Voila.


And yeah, I managed to burn my pasta when I cooked this yesterday. How exactly does one go about burning pasta? Not enough water, nice one.

I usually do a variation on this, which involves skipping the pasta and just having fresh french bread with it to dip into the sauce, I also put chopped dried chilli in with the shrimp too. Alas the German stores were closed yesterday for Corpus Christi so I couldn't get any bread.

Oh and by the way, I use a lot of butter in my cooking. It's always proper salted butter, I never use low fat substitutes. We all drink whole milk in this house. Why? Because generally speaking, if you can't pronounce the name of an ingredient in your food then you probably shouldn't be eating it. American food scares me a little, why does your whole milk taste the same as the low fat stuff? Vitamin D added milk? What's all this "enriched rice"/"enriched macaroni" nonsense? That's one of the reasons I normally try to shop on the economy here, that and I recognise the European brands more than I do American ones. You crazy Americans.

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I am a 24 year old British stay at home mother to a two year old boy. Married to a U.S. soldier and currently living in Germany.

I have seen the Vatican from the very top of St Peter's Basilica, the mud in the World War I trenches outside Ypres. I have walked through Montmartre side streets bustling with people in the evening, gotten lost in the streets of Greenwich Village NYC, run through cornfields on the Welsh border and sat outside with a cup of tea watching fireflies in the fields of the outer Chicago suburbs.

I have held the hands of others through addiction, fear, suicide, despair and come out the other side. I have left everything behind to begin anew.
I have fought mental illness and walked through snow in the mountains of the lake district, England. I have explored the morgue in the bowels of an abandoned hospital on a summer evening, climbed to the top of scaffolding on the outside of a five floor warehouse to look at the city lights of Nottingham at night and I have watched the sun setting on the Texas horizon.

I have held my son's tiny hand through the plastic window on an isolette in the NICU ward. Walked, speaking only in whispers, through the catacombs beneath the ground on the outskirts of Rome and seen the fireworks over Heidelberg castle.

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