Also
You will also need a big ol' skillet, and I mean big. Frankly, I have to use two frying pans at first, and transfer the contents of one to the other when they've cooked down some.
But on with the instructions.
Slice the onions.
Heat olive oil in the big ol' pan. Add onions, and saute over medium heat for about 15 minutes.
Add salt (to taste), lower heat, continue to saute for about half an hour. No, I'm not kidding. Stir frequently and add a little more oil if it looks like it's burning. You don't want the edges of the onions to turn black, but you do want the entire mass to gradually turn brown as the sugars caramelize. When the entire thing is dark brown, you're ready to continue. Heck, maybe this takes 45 minutes. Don't rush it.
Add white wine, turn the heat back up to medium, and simmer (uncovered) for about 15 minutes. (Somewhere in this interval you should start the pasta-cooking process.)
Stir in the crumbled cheese until it's all melted.
Put pasta on plate. Put sauce on pasta. Put some walnuts on the sauce.
Eat.
Go outside and take a walk.
Come back inside. Inhale the essence of sauteed onion that permeates your living space. Swoon.
I came downstairs, into the morning melee. Omelettes today. So I guessed. Janet was doing something with eggs, at least, and Tom was losing ground against piles of peppers and onions and cheese.That ought be cheese, I guessed.
"Can I--" began Janet, and I nodded judiciously. "Just keep it up," I said. "The pieces will probably get ground up too small to see. Most people," over her broken words, "pick out the eggshell before they begin to beat." (Tom clattered and cursed, and I didn't look.) "But it'll add texture." I'm an asshole sometimes, but I try to be encouraging with it.
Besides, eggs beaten to a stiff foam might make good omelettes. Omeringuelettes? I kicked aside peppers and hunted the orange juice, pondering. Miraculously, it was on the table.
The dishwasher is my personal domain, although I had to fight for it. (Tom thinks doing dishes is a religious duty.) I extracted a clean glass, and discovered that the Miracle of St. Tropicana had occurred last night. The juice was warm and interestingly fermented. Water to wine, the followup miracle. I did my penance and swallowed; the alternative was Janet's coffee.
"Give those here," said Tom. Clank, bowl and pan. I still didn't look. "Damn. Okay, the -- damn. Pilot light's out." Smothered in egg foam, no doubt, I didn't say. I'd reached the stage of despair. That usually isn't until 8:15; fast work today. Lynn calls it "acceptance", but it doesn't feel that good; anyhow, I skip there straight from denial and rage, so it shouldn't count. I idly shoved onions around the carpet, and drank more juice. Should I be pouring libations? Might be preferable.
An inhuman moan broke my pondering. Demons falling from heaven, burning, wailing, damnation ahead. Or -- Lynn swaying down the stairs. Faintly yellow, eyes gaunt. We braced ourselves, even Tom; we know Lynn's hangovers.
"BE! QUIET!"
I blinked twice; the pilot light went out again, and Lynn went rigid as her own reverb hit. She toppled from the bottom step, and her foot came down in a pile of cheese. What Tom called cheese. Cheese lubricant. The crash was nearly as loud as the scream, and was followed by a distinct snore.
Ask me why I don't drink.