The idle ramblings of a Jack of some trades, Master of none

I sincerely hope the author is being facetious here. Of course, it's a Russian who is making the pasta, and we all know how that will turn out. Still, the narrator's  mouth waters at the thought of Dmitri's cooking. Take a look at this, from Camilla T. Crespi's The Trouble With a Hot Summer:
"Dmitri! Are you cooking?" My legs swallowed the stairs two at a time. 
My partner was standing in front of the microwave, a beatific glow on his face. The door was ajar. 
I peered under his armpit. A plastic plate brimmed with cannelloni - six of them, covered in bubbling white sauce with a delicate marbling of tomato. One bare corner revealed paper-thin pasta. The smell told me lobster stuffing with a hint of tarragon. 
[Dmitri] lifted the cannelloni out of the microwave as if they were his firstborn. "Microwave oven remind Russian woman of husband with vodka. Thirty seconds, he's cooked."


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