Hello there, I’m Clara Delacroix, 39 years old, born and raised in the picturesque market town of Ludlow in Shropshire. My love affair with pasta started in the unlikeliest of places: my grandmother’s garden shed, where we used to roll out makeshift dough on a battered old table and cut tagliatelle with a pizza wheel. She wasn’t Italian, but she cooked with the spirit of one, all heart and flour-dusted laughter.

Though my roots are deeply British, my palate and soul have always leaned towards the Mediterranean. I trained formally at the Leiths School of Food and Wine in London, but the real education came during a sun-drenched year in Emilia-Romagna, where I apprenticed under a formidable nonna named Signora Bianchi. She barely spoke English, and I barely spoke Italian, but we communicated fluently in semolina, eggs, and elbow nudges.

Now, I run a tiny pasta kitchen and workshop in Bristol, where I teach everyone from wide-eyed six-year-olds to seasoned chefs how to coax magic out of dough. I believe pasta is democratic: a humble dish with infinite possibility. There’s as much joy in a simple cacio e pepe as in a painstakingly stuffed cappellacci.

What I love most is the quiet ritual of making pasta by hand—the tactile calm of kneading, the silky resistance of a good dough, the faint scent of nutty flour. But I also adore the messes, the flops, the occasional gluey ravioli that reminds us we’re always learning. I’ve burnt sauce, dropped trays, even once set off the fire alarm mid-demo. It keeps me humble.

If I had one wish, it’s that people feel bold in the kitchen. Experiment. Play. Pasta isn’t just food; it’s therapy, art, and a bridge between generations. My goal is to demystify it, to show that anyone—regardless of age or background—can make something extraordinary with their own two hands.

So whether you’re here because you’re just starting out, or you’re a seasoned professional looking to explore new textures and techniques, I welcome you to my flour-speckled corner of the world. Let’s get rolling.