A long time ago I read a book that changed my measly 3rd grade life in a multitude of unpredictable ways. I began journaling. And eavesdropping. I started to look at adults like they could be my friends. Shoot, it even opened my eyes to realize that I already had adult friends. I tried a tomato sandwich once, too (hated it). I wanted to move to the New York City and live in an old house with a dumbwaiter. I even had a make-believe nanny for awhile. Oh, and then there was spaghetti night.
I remember wanting to live with Sport and his dad because they had spaghetti every night. Little did I know that every night was spaghetti night in Sport’s house because they were poor. I mean, I could put the puzzle pieces together but I only recently (since I have bought myself groceries with my own paycheck, ahem, adulthood) truly understood the concept of spaghetti night. But you know what? I love spaghetti night.
Actually, I hadn’t cooked a box of spaghetti in over a year. We’re a risotto, tortellini and quinoa family. Those are our starches of choice. But, since my energy levels were far from desirable this weekend, and Alex hadn’t left the couch all day (yes, I just called him out on that), spaghetti night sounded appropriate.
It sure is cheap. And, you know, whether you contribute it to reading Harriet the Spy a gazillion times and hoping to relive every moment of her life or to the countless days spent dangling my feet from the stool at our kitchen counter top, watching my mom stir the boiling pot of pasta, I’ve developed a kinship with spaghetti night. In fact, when I would return from college, I always asked for spaghetti night. It just wasn’t the same in a college cafeteria. Actually, it downright sucked at JMU. Now, while I have my repertoire of dinners, rotated weekly based upon our moods and what’s in the pantry, I still enjoy a spaghetti night every once and awhile.
So, to all of the Sport’s and their dad’s out there in this world: savor your spaghetti nights. I don’t judge.
P.S. If you haven’t introduced yourself to the precocious Harriet M. Welsch yet, you should. I don’t care your age.
*Filed under Home Life*