On Love and Spaghetti
I’m in a class that’s severely lacking in content and is overloaded on idle gossip slash fire-fueled grumbling about the state of the world, as many classes in the college of liberal arts often are. I think we started back at something worth-while. Maybe with some political statement that, in general, summed up the discontent of the working class majority…but then (of course) someone made a half-hearted “woe is me” comment based entirely on a selfish agenda and now everyone’s jumped on the bandwagon to complain about every last detail of their unorganized, non-directional lives.
But this is neither here nor anywhere near where it’s supposed to be. The point of all of this rambling, or if not the point than at the very least the point that I am trying to parallel park myself into, is spaghetti.
Why spaghetti? Because currently it sounds delicious and I’d give my first born for a heaping bowl of the stuff. However, since I’m not planning on having children, maybe a bite of said spaghetti would be a more valuable return on your investment (of bringing me spaghetti). You can weigh your options and get back to me.
Many people might say, “But Mary. There’s world hunger, violent rape, economic crisis, celebrity scandals and fad diets to write about. Why, oh WHY would you choose to write about spaghetti? I mean REALLY? Reaaaally Mary? Spaghetti?”
And to that I would politely respond (with a tip of my hat, if I wore one), “YES! Reaaaaaallly. (and I’d draw it out in the same way that they had to see if they thought it was annoying, too) Spaghetti.” Because what’s really wrong with choosing to write about spaghetti? People have written songs about spaghetti. Well, actually people wrote just one solitary song about spaghetti. And,actually, it was really about the misguided meatball atop their spaghetti, but they say the word spaghetti like a million times so you might as well chalk it up as a song about spaghetti. And lest we not forget that spaghetti is what brought the lady and the tramp together. If it weren’t for spaghetti, there wouldn’t be those cute puppies at the end with of the movie with their mamas ears and that tramp’s coloring.
So yes. I’d like to write about spaghetti for your reading pleasure.
First of all, I’m gonna make me some aldente noodles. I’m not talking crunchy or anything, but I need them to be the opposite of gooey.
Second of all, the sauce. It’s gonna be tomato-y, and thick, and simultaneously sweet, salty and oregano-y all at once.
The only UN-enjoyable thing about this whole spaghetti smorgasbord that I am planning, is going to be the grocery store. Things I hate about the grocery store?
- It’s cold.
- It’s harder to navigate than a corn maze.
- They put the new-fangled ketchup bottles (the ones that you keep upside down so you don’t have to pound on the bottom of the bottle or shake it all over the place) with their labels upside down. It takes me at least 30 minutes to turn them all right side up again before I can move on with my shopping.
- And last, but hardly least, shopping carts.
Things I hate about shopping carts? Well that’s a whole ‘nother list that I’ll save for the day when my professor goes on her next rant about all her famous English-genius friends and the hilarious professional fax-pas her co-workers make. But in summary, I have been told that I have bad shopping cart etiquette. This means that I run over people’s heels, I always park in front of the isle entrances that people are trying to get into when I’m looking at the end-isle deals, and I frequently abandon my cart like a stinky old stray pretty much every time I see a two-fer sign. Which means that I’m constantly apologizing when I come back and find a grumpy old lady standing there all put out. Your support hose can wait lady! If I don’t end up giving my first born in a black market trade for spaghetti, remind me to never use the baby seat in the cart. Otherwise, you’re gonna hear about me on the 6 o’clock news. I’ll be the woman that forgot she had a child until she heard “clean up on isle four…bring diapers.” on the intercom.
But I digress…If I can make it past the directionally challenged shopping carts and manage not to abandon my Barilla thin spaghetti in the toothpaste isle (because I saw buy one get one dental floss) then I’m going to have one gigantic, delicious and heavily sauced bowl of spaghetti, to-night.
And, it’s gonna be great.
On the off chance that the worst-case scenario of shopping trips takes place, however, (i.e. Ethel takes me out with her fifty pound handbag for parking in front of her bran flakes) and you happen to see a lone cart with noodles, sauce, garlic bread and a few trashy magazines in it, left caddy-wampus in the international foods isle, please deliver to the care of Mary Case. [Postage guaranteed.]
Me, and my hypothetical first born will thank you for saving us from extreme hunger pains and childhood abandonment (respectively).