The Greatest Meal Ever

You know, creative genius is not a constant. Unlike the sun in wintry Cleveland--which not just goes, it went--and snow in wintry Cleveland--which comes and comes and comes--it comes and goes. In addition to Blonde on Blonde, Blood on the Tracks, and "Love and Theft," Bob Dylan also produced Knocked Out Loaded and Down in the Groove; how could the Beatles have possibly followed up their masterpiece Revolver with anything but the let down clunker of Sgt. Pepper's?; DaVinci's Mona Lisa, of course, but have you ever seen the Monas Liza, Lizzie, and Lester--unfit for any Renaissance refrigerator, trust me. Likewise, God. Anyone bold or wacky enough to stand up for cauliflower, beets, or chopped liver? Didn't think so. But spaghetti, ah, that's where the Supreme Being hit His/Her/Its stride.

Why do I love spaghetti so much? After all the various reasons are considered--it tastes great, is easy and cheap to make, it's practically un-mess-uppable, to eat it you have to "play with your food"--for me it comes down to the mother of all reasons: genetics. In my case, quite literaly, my mother.

A few years ago I realized, like a bolt of enlightenment, that I was a mere fetus, a tiny evolving bambino, in October 1962. My God, I thought, I had just begun my life's journey, was at my most impressionable and vulnerable, during the vaunted Cuban Missile Crisis, the moment in history when mankind came closest to extinction since that little rainy day period back in Noah's time. No wonder, I thought, no wonder my psychic equilibrium is always so fraught with intimations of abnormality: I was gestating when the entire world was freaking out! Of course some of that's bound to get in the system at the most basic level--pregnant mom to baby-to-be. So I asked her, "Mom, what was it like during the Cuban Missile Crisis? Were you all raving, panic-stricken beings struggling to cope with your imminent demise? Is that why paper cuts scare the crap out of me, every passing cloud makes me queasy, and I've had recurring nightmares of Fidel Castro pointing a finger at me since I was a wee lad?"

She replied that she didn't remember much: she bought some shoes she didn't really need because she felt, well, what the hell, maybe it's the end of the world, and she ate a lot of pasta throughout her pregnancy. That's my mom, all right: down to Earth, a wry sense of humor, and the greatest gift-giver in the world--life and a life-long love of pasta, specifically spaghetti (and believe me, I'd easily sell any pair of shoes I've ever owned for a steaming bowl of spaghetti and meatballs; the shoe thing didn't make it through the umbilical cord, I guess).

I have no problem looking at a little kernel and believing it can become popcorn, or seeing a cow and instantly grabbing for ketchup for my burger, but I'm still dumbfounded that a brittle little pale stick of absolutely nearly nothing can be transformed by boiling water into the true manna from Heaven. Genius. You can't eat a Picasso, but you sure can eat the work of art known as spaghetti.

Now I'll admit there are times when, presented with a bowl of spaghetti, I regress (curling up next to the bowl in the fetal position and slurping the luscious strands sans spoon, fork, and hands), but usually only when alone, and less and less the less limber I get (though the kind and ultimately understanding wait staff at Fredo's Ristorante may beg to disagree). And before I became such an experienced gourmand, I admit I often would find myself in French, Mexican, Japanese restaurants chastising the folks there for not offering spaghetti and meatballs on their menus. But these misbehaviors only serve to illustrate my undying love of spaghetti. Cheeseburgers, bacon, covered in chocolate!, bagels, Tootsie Rolls--all wonderful, but nothing in comparison to spaghetti and meatballs, for me the ultimate combination of nature and nurture.

James Carr-Love Attack

...and speaking lately of twipping points and spaghetti: