I made spaghetti for lunch today, and I tossed in some frozen meatballs for variety and the ever-important protein. I’m a little ashamed to admit I used jarred sauce and pre-cooked meatballs, but on report card weekend a woman is left with only two options: starvation or processed food. Pasta is the way to go for a speedy meal, if you ask me, because it requires very little effort, unlike peeling potatoes or measuring rice just so and waiting an hour for it to cook. As far as I know, there’s no Italian in my heritage, but my folks used to joke that I was clearly connected to the land of linguine.
I am a pasta princess, unlike my bestie who would rather eat a potato than just about anything else. While my devotion to the noodle may say something about my high-stress lifestyle and inescapable craving for carbs, I wanted pasta all the time even in childhood, so it’s certainly not a new development.
It probably all started right here:
Let’s save our jokes about my cue ball head for another day, shall we? This is the photo (obviously) of my introduction to spaghetti with tomato sauce, a staple in every person’s baby album and in the arsenal of things her parents threaten to show a boy she’s dating during her teenage years.
Obviously, this shot also reveals an early, abandoned potential career in dermatology, as I’ve clearly applied an even layer of tomato sauce to my face as a home chemical peel. The citric and malic acids are the reasons you never store tomato sauce in a metal bowl, and I must have known, even at less than a year of age, that my favourite food could also double as a quick and cost-effective skin rejuvenation system.
For the record, I can now consume spaghetti with tomato sauce with minimal splatter to my face. I’ve always been a twirler, since cutting noodles before eating them is sacrilegious, and I have great respect for the faith. Plus, it’s much more fun to spin a fork than to pile the heartbreaking wreckage of what used to be noodles onto the tines. While I was growing up, my momma told me time and again, “Kay, please don’t ever order spaghetti on a first date, unless you don’t want to see the guy again.”
I decided to write this post after wiping the last of the lunch speckles off The Electrician’s face. We understand one another, indeed.
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