When I was a kid, I was a selective eater. I made out fine at breakfast (peanut butter toast) and lunch (peanut butter sandwiches), but suppertime was always a bit of a minefield for me because there were so many main dishes and side dishes I didn't much like. And there were parents who didn't much like that I didn't eat what was on the table. So dinner time was often stressful. Thus, it was a huge relief when we had one of my two favorite dinners: tacos or spaghetti. Taco nights were rare--usually a birthday meal request from me or one of my siblings. But we had spaghetti more often. In addition to it being a food I loved, spaghetti night was also the one time we were allowed to drink pop with dinner. We shared a bottle of cherry, orange, or grape Golden Age soda. This gave spaghetti night an air of celebration. If I came home late from school after play practice and saw that the kitchen windows were steamed up, my heart lifted because I knew my mom's big aluminum spaghetti pot was boiling away inside.
All these years later, spaghetti night still lifts my spirits. It doesn't matter if we're having it with homemade Bolognese sauce, salad, and garlic bread, or if I'm just putting a little jarred sauce atop buttered noodles; spaghetti always hits the spot with me. It's the meal we have when I'm tired, when I can't think of anything else to make, or when it's been a hard week. Or all of the above, like today. The steamy kitchen and the wafting smell of tomato sauce connect the present with the past. And to me that comforting plate full of noodles and sauce still feels like a little celebration--especially when it comes with a slice of leftover apple pie! I hope that each of you found a soft place to land for a few minutes this Sunday too.
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