Almost everyone ha the opinion that I am picky. But I’ll eat anything my mom makes me because everything she makes hits every time, no matter what it is. Especially her spaghetti which nay sound strange coming from me, because I don’t like cheese at ALL and neither do I eat anyone’s spaghetti.
No matter which house it was, my mom always has the nicest, cleanest kitchen that made the freshest food. Every time my mon would cook you can taste all the flavor as though you could feel it. I was more happy than her when she would cook; I loved to watch and help, I felt that it was one of the only times she was calm and we could bond.
I loved when every time she made spaghetti she would let me dump the noodles and stir, but my favorite part was to taste her sauce because unlike others her spaghetti sauce was sweet–right up my alley.
Later on in life, we had a lot of issues which caused me to be separated from my sibling and mom, and I spent a lot of my time imagining and thinking. She hated me, I thought, that “mmm, OK, I’ll be fine without her” or “I don’t care, it’s whatever” and “I don’t miss her”. Three lies told with a straight face. I tried to hide the real feelings and thoughts running through my head which were “I won’t. be fine without her” “I do care” and “I do miss her”. A lot of times I wish I would have been real with myself so I didn’t suffer from the inside.
Now every time I go to a cookout or party, I still stick to what I know and don’t eat the spaghetti because I only every liked my mom’s because it was sweet but at the same time salty. She was consistent every time. She made it with no cheese or putting cheese to the side or making the whole dish half cheese and half no cheese. Now when I see a pan of spaghetti I still envision it being half and half and think of her, and when I think about it, it’s not only the spaghetti that I loved and miss. It’s her and how everything she makes is so out of the ordinary.
Now when I am making it on my own as the chef and not the little assistant, I still smell the sugar in it but I can’t feel her watching me from the corner of her eye, ready to judge or her hands guiding me to cut stuff or hearing her saying, “uh uh” when she thinks I’m going to add too much of something. Even thought I miss the meal I miss her presence as much, so much that I would trade my ability to hear, to go home and see her cook again