Quick & Easy Pastina

Quick & Easy Pastina Recipe: Tiny Pasta. Cosy Vibes

A Return to the Ritual

It has been far too long since I last shared a recipe, and when I finally sat down to make a bowl of quick and easy pastina, I realised just how much I’d missed the comfort of it all. Not just the dish itself, but the ritual of making something simple and soothing. And while the photos might not win any awards, if you’ve been here for a while, you’ll know that my food has always been more about taste than presentation. This bowl of tiny pasta, slow-simmered broth, and familiar flavours brought a kind of comfort I hadn’t realised I needed. Pastina is the kind of dish that makes you breathe deeper, drop your shoulders, and let the day go.

I’ve been going through a bit of a shift lately. Losing my dad last year tore something open in me, and rather than stopping to grieve, I kept pushing. It’s always been my way to keep busy, keep moving, keep producing. But by the time Christmas rolled around, I was burnt out in a way that felt bone-deep. So I stopped. For the first time in three years, I took a proper break. Two weeks off, no work, no projects, just rest. And in that stillness, I started noticing the things that actually made me feel good. Pastina was one of them. A simple bowl of pasta and broth that made me feel safe, nourished, and held.

As part of this reset, I’ve been paying attention to what my body needs. I’ve cut out foods that were triggering inflammation and started leaning into those that felt healing and grounding. Mediterranean-inspired meals with minimal fuss and maximum comfort. Quick and easy pastina fits perfectly into that. It’s light, it’s warm, and it’s as nurturing as anything I’ve ever cooked. Whether I’m fighting off a cold or just coming home after a hard day, it’s the first thing I crave.

The Healing Power of Pastina

Pastina has long been known as Italian penicillin, and for good reason. It’s not just a meal, it’s a ritual of care. The kind of dish that grandmothers make when someone’s sick, tired, or in need of comfort. There’s no magic to it, just that deeply human need to feel warm and looked after. And honestly, that’s what I’ve needed most lately. Not fixes or distractions, but a little softness.

Similar to risotto, there’s something healing about stirring a pot of broth and pasta, not rushing it, just letting it come together slowly. No measuring cups, no fancy techniques, just instinct and intention. That quiet kind of cooking, the kind that gives you space to think, has been a balm. I’ve been so busy for so long that I forgot how good it feels to cook without urgency. Pastina gave me that gift back.

It’s also incredibly forgiving. Bad day? Pastina. Feeling under the weather? Pastina. Just need a moment to yourself? You guessed it. It meets you where you are, which is something I wish more food did. It doesn’t ask anything of you. It just shows up, warm and familiar, and says, here, take a breath.

Cosy Nights and Self-Care

Friday nights have quietly become sacred to me. They’re the punctuation at the end of a long week, a gentle signal to slow down. I light a candle, pour a glass of wine, and make something that feels like home. My pastina recipe has become my go-to ritual. It doesn’t demand much, but it gives so much back. It’s food that says you don’t need to be productive right now. You just need to be.

I think part of growing older is learning to honour those moments. To not just see rest as something you earn, but something you need. My body has been asking for softness, for calm, for space. And food plays such a big role in that. Not just in what it does to our bodies, but how it makes us feel in the moment. Pastina is comfort. It’s connection. It’s presence.

I used to spend so many of my evenings trying to get ahead, finish one more thing, tick one more task off the list. Now I give myself permission to stop. To eat slowly, to exhale, to be nourished. That bowl of pasta and broth has become my anchor. A simple reminder that care can be quiet. That healing can be gentle. And that sometimes, the best kind of self-care is a soft bowl of something warm, eaten in silence, with nowhere else to be.

Returning to What Feels Good

This season of my life has been about returning. To the things that feel right. To the practices that ground me. To food that nourishes me not just physically, but emotionally. Letting go of complicated meals and leaning into what’s simple, what’s soothing, has been a kind of revelation. Quick and easy pastina isn’t just a recipe, it’s a return to myself.

There’s something about standing in the kitchen, stirring broth, watching the pasta swell and soften, that brings me back to centre. It reminds me that I don’t need to do everything. That being still is allowed. That comfort is enough. I’ve spent so long running on empty, trying to be everything for everyone, that I forgot what it felt like to just be. Pastina has helped me remember.

Tonight, I’ll make it again. I’ll take my time. I’ll pour a glass of wine and let the warmth of the bowl settle me. I’ll sit with the quiet and let myself feel whatever needs to be felt. No rushing. No fixing. Just being. And that, more than anything, is what healing looks like right now.

Breaking Down the Ingredients

The real magic of pastina is in the ingredients. There’s nowhere to hide in a dish this simple, so each component has to bring something meaningful to the bowl. Starting with the star: pastina. These tiny pasta shapes are soft, comforting, and incredibly easy to eat. I’ve been using anellini lately, mostly because I can’t always get gluten-free pastina, and honestly, it’s just as lovely. The way it soaks up the broth and turns silky is pure comfort.

Next comes the stock. A really good-quality chicken stock is essential here. It’s not just the base of the dish, it’s the heart. Rich, nourishing, and full of flavour, the stock makes every bite feel like a warm hug. I keep both homemade and store-bought versions on hand, and either will do as long as it’s full-bodied and well-seasoned. A small knob of butter stirred through at the end adds a layer of silkiness that transforms the broth into something luxurious.

Then there’s the Pecorino. A good handful stirred through just before serving brings a nutty, salty depth that rounds out the dish. I use aged Pecorino because I love the intensity, but Parmigiano works too if that’s what you’ve got. Garlic gives the broth just a hint of warmth without overpowering it, while a generous pinch of sea salt and crack of black pepper ties everything together. It’s simple, yes, but it’s thoughtful. Every ingredient serves a purpose, and together they create something greater than the sum of its parts.