The other day I found myself at a local organic grocery store. It was about dinner time and I had no current plan for dinner. Since the only thing I can afford in there is chap stick, you can imagine my delight when I noticed a pound of hamburger meat that cost less than a piano lesson. And not just any ol factory-churned, tube of ground up innerds either. It was grass fed, gluten free, organic, BPA free, casein free, dye free, nitrate & preservative free, BUT as luck would have it, still free range. Did I miss any? I'm pretty sure this cow was sung to and received regular pedicures in its life (at least I hope so for how heavy its price tag was). Basically it was the high school cheerleader of meats (not sure why the cheerleader/meat parallel came to mind but it seems a good fit). None of that is really important anyway, except to say that I came home feeling a bit jazzed about my find for dinner. I was greeted by hungry kids who swarmed me with tons of questions and requests to watch amazing skills they had acquired in the last two hours. Amidst all the chaos, Braden started browning the meat and I threw in the pasta and seasoned the sauce, and in ten minutes we had a lovely meal. And all the while I kept thinking to myself, "This is too easy. Why don't I make this more?".
And then we sat down to eat.
And everyone started out with a fork, I swear it.
By the time that meal ended and the kids (who used to be pasty white but were now a greasy reflective orange), had scattered, Braden and I looked around the room to survey the damage. "Ahhhh. THIS. This is why I stopped making spaghetti". And it's not even like I made a clear choice or had some kind of firm decision that I could call on for future reference. I had no memories until I was thrown back into the exact scenario. And then it flooded my mind. I blocked it out. Like some kind of trauma, I blocked out the experience of serving spaghetti for dinner.
And then we had to create a strategy. Do you sweep right away knowing full well the torment that is sweeping moist noodles? Or do you give it 12 hours, long enough for the noodles to dry out, but also allowing the sauce to transform itself into actual glue? The kind that removes paint from the table and virtuous thoughts from your mind.
Perhaps the most disheartening thought of all was packing up all the leftovers and knowing that this occasion would soon repeat itself at least twice in the coming week. I'm not sure why, but whenever I cook spaghetti noodles I cook enough to feed a small African nation. It seems like one harmless little box. And those noodles are so tiny. After a few handfuls I find myself thinking, "Surely that won't feed us all". And then suddenly my kitchen is like Strega Nona and the pasta pot is endless. Sure, I could throw it out, but there's that whole thing about the starving kids in Africa. That's real, you know. Chipping paint on my table seems a small price to pay for kids who are nourished.
*As the leftovers ensued over the coming days, I could ask myself only two questions as I watched history repeat itself:
1) Was that beef really everything it professed to be? I don't even feel any different. In fact I'd say I've been a little sluggish and maybe sort of bloated if you want to know the truth.
and 2) Are these children marryable? They look more like untamed savages emerging from a cave than children at a dinner table.
We have to do better.
Otherwise I'll be making and cleaning spaghetti for untold years to come.
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| Never mind. I love these spaghetti faces. Seeing these pictures just made me remember. |
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