Spaghetti and Meat Sauce With a Touch of Home

My mother hates to cook. She’s an artist. Cooking is a needless hassle in her eyes. But, then again, I had to eat something in my youth. 

Oftentimes my father would be late from work. On those occasions my mother would disinterestedly shamble into the kitchen and turn on the burner. Out would come a familiar box of pasta and ground beef she would never season.

I would sit at the counter impatiently, thinking of soccer, homework, and cartoons (such was the scope of my imagination in those days). Then, a plate of red and yellow something would come down in front of me. 

“There,” she’d say, already turning around. “The dishes are your responsibility.”

I didn’t think much about spaghetti and meat sauce until recently, when I moved into an apartment with a kitchen. For two years I ate the slop they served in the dining hall. Now I make my own food.

My father was excited about this prospect — probably more excited than I was. He insisted on sending me to school with a big recipe book. He told me about his college days, when he ate stew. 

“One big pot of stew,” he said, “and it feeds you for a week!” But, I don’t like stew. I realized: I like spaghetti and meat sauce.

So, last night, I found myself wandering through the aisles of Star Market. I was tired, and I still had work to do. A whole story to write, in fact. I thought of my mother, how she would make dinner for me after teaching three back-to-back pottery classes.  

Anyway, I looked for ingredients. My roommate loaned me some healthy bolognese sauce, so that was taken care of. All I needed to find was pasta and beef. I located some suitable pasta in the bargain section ($2.39!) and found some beef in the meat aisle. I chose the “grass-fed” variety.

And that was all! Besides Parmesan cheese, of course, which we had at home. I understood why this dish was a favorite of my mother’s, who constantly impressed upon me the importance of finding bargains — of living below your means.

Only one roommate was home when I came back, and he wasn't in the kitchen. While I set out my ingredients in the kitchen I heard him plug his guitar into the amplifier. 

The ground beef was in front of me. Unlike my mother did, I seasoned it thoroughly. Garlic, onion, chili powder, salt, pepper, anything I could get my hands on went on the beef in no orderly fashion. My roommate, meanwhile, pretended to be Bob Dylan.

While I dumped pasta into boiling water I again thought of my mother. Her work is in museums now, small museums, but museums, nonetheless. Clay is her medium. There are photos of me as a one-year-old spinning pots on her wheel adorning our family home.

She has a dreamy, contemplative nature. She also has quite the temper. We used to have great, screaming fights. One time she doused me with a glass of water for getting home too late.

We don’t fight anymore though. My teenage angst — the chekhov's gun that caused our fights — is gone. I’m an adult now, and I busy myself with the activities of adults. What do adults do? They cook spaghetti and meat sauce.

The beef finished cooking first. I turned the burner to “low” and dumped in the bolognese sauce and stirred occasionally. The sauce started bubbling up while I stirred.

The pasta took longer. When it was done I put some of the starchy water in the bolognese and dumped the rest out in the sink. Then, I heaped a portion of pasta onto a plate and put the bolognese mixture on top. I garnished with parmesan cheese. 

At this point both of my roommates walked into the kitchen. I fixed a plate for one of them. The other took some fish out of the oven. We all sat down together to eat. 

“Ah,” I said, my mouth full of pasta, “I really should call my mother.”