Dinner was pasta last night. I love the ritual of the cooking of a good pasta sauce – the house filled with wonderful aromas after the sauce simmers on the stove for hours. When I was child, I would always be dismayed with how my mother prepared her pasta. She would break it up into little pieces before boiling it – travesty! One of the important rituals in eating good pasta is carefully twirling the long strands upon the fork, making sure to get a chunky piece of tomato or some ground beef with every bite. That smell of garlic, basil, and grated parmesan is almost always intoxicating. I could easily become a food addict now that I am sober these days.
As I was making my way home from my early morning walk, I thought of what I wanted in life. Pasta. Cooking. And someone to share it with. I could curl up with a friend on the couch and watch hours of The Food Network getting ideas for our next culinary foray into the kitchen. We would sit eating pasta as we talked of our day. "Pass the parmesan and grater," she would say. I would smile as I asked her if she would like another bowl, taking great satisfaction out of her enjoyment of the meal. I realized there was no greater relationship magic than sharing a bowl of pasta between friends and ample, good conversation. I do not have much hope of ever finding this combination of conversational and culinary bliss, but I do take comfort in knowing that the next bowl of pasta is always only a few hours of cooking away. One out of two ain't that bad.