As soccer season draws to a close for high school boys, so does
pasta dinner season. Nights before home games are filled with tastes of Italy,
or some variation...spaghetti, lasagne, rigatoni, garlic...
For some unknown
reason, I thought it was a good idea to add my name to the volunteer sheet
(that sentence could really stop right there, but it goes on) toward the end of
the season. Right when things are at the height of chaos. And on top of
that...well, let me just give you the original title for this particular
posting: "Never Sign Up to Bring Pasta to an Italian Woman's
House."
I consider myself
to be a good cook. On some days, I consider myself to be an excellent cook. And
on the best days, so do the people who are eating the meal I've prepared.
On any day, I can
graciously admit defeat and bow down to the winner (Yes, the way I see it,
everything is a competition, whether it's against myself or any random
opponent.).
The night before
the big rivalry game for the boys, I opened a 2 pound box of spaghetti and
turned on some show tunes while I waited for the water to boil. Nothing
accentuates Italian meal preparation like the soundtrack from "Mamma
Mia!" (even though the music is actually written by Swedes).
Pizzaghetti. The
Americanized version of baked spaghetti, complete with mozzarella cheese,
pepperoni, beef, and enormous helpings heaped onto the plates. And although my
son wouldn't run over and hug me in front of his team anymore, as he did when
he was 7, I would still be the culinary hero of the day and his eyes would
light up at the sight of his favorite mass-quantity pasta dish.
I brought the
silver foil pan (made in America, surprisingly) into my co-sponsors home an
hour ahead of the dinner in order to help her get ready for the stompede of
teenage boys who would soon overtake the lavish piazza setting in the middle of
the north woods. More than half expecting to hear "Con te Partiro" as
I stepped in to Little Italy, I was instead greeted by a tiny Italian woman who
filled the air with wonderful stories of her homeland. And as I set the pan
down on the trivet that looked like a tile from the Mercato Italiano, I quickly
recognized 10 things. #'s 1-9 were all absurdly American stereotypes about
myself, and #10 was the recognition that my pasta paled in comparison to the
overflowing bowl of deliciousness on the table next to it.
To make a long
story short(er), I was somewhat entertained and secretly quite pleased to note
that all of the American teenage boys on my son's soccer team naturally
gravitated to the dish that most closely resembled familiarity. Perhaps it was
the foil pan, perhaps it was the pepperoni dotting the top layer, but the
pizzaghetti was polished off in 2.5 minutes flat. I, on the other hand, relish
the opportunity to taste authentic food, and heaped my plate with the
mouth-watering rigatoni in the oversized Vietri serving dish.
"What did you
PUT in this?" I asked, overwhelmed by the unbelievable flavors that filled
my entire soul.
"Ohhh, I
don't know," came the accented reply. "I never write anything
down..." Then came the short list of ingredients that I desperately tried
to memorize, all the while trying to determine what the secret ingredient could
possibly be.
Oh, for crying out
loud. That does it. Never volunteer to co-sponsor a pasta dinner with an
Italian woman. This was like knitting with my mother. "Here, look, you can
make a Mobius scarf if you cast on your stitches like this..."
????What????
However, last
night my entire outlook did a complete 360 as that list of ingredients that I'd
memorized came to mind in the wake of mapping out the evening's meal. The
entire moral of my story changed, and I made the immediate decision to
volunteer to cook with an Italian woman at any possible opportunity. Or ANYONE
who could bring that brilliance to a dinner table, for that matter. And sheer
delight overtook me as I served the master of all pasta dishes to my other
favorite pasta-eater in the family.
"Buon appetito!"
"Wow."
Came the response to the first bite. "WOW!" brought an even bigger
smile to my face. And then the question that I couldn't have scripted for
myself any better...
"What did you
PUT in this?"
"Ohhh, I
don't know." I shrugged my shoulders and tried to give my best look of
nonchalance. "I didn't really write anything down..."
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