Pasta Perfect

By Bruce Goldfarb

It was an innocent question, a dull and innocuous query uncloaked by hidden meanings. Routine and ordinary. Red, one of my roommates, asked what I'd like for dinner.

To be perfectly honest, my answer took no mean deliberation. I had been musing on that subject all day, for days in fact, entertaining a secret gustatory desire that stirred within the convolutions of my brain's appetite center.

At once, and without hesitation, I answered: "Spaghetti."

"Lovely idea," replied Red, and he began assembling the pots and pans, cans of tomato sauce, sausage and ground beef, onions, peppers, mushrooms and spices; a veritable whirlwind around the kitchen stove.

"I musn't forget puree," he reminded himself out loud.

And then later we ate. Good spaghetti, wonderful spaghetti, and lots of it.

On television that night there was a Clint Eastwood film festival on the late show, so I stayed up 'til all hours munching on garlic toast and watching those corny old cowboy movies.

The next morning, seemingly on a whim (I did not yet recognize the morbid foreshadow), I decided to wear my pointed-toe shoes to class.

I began to suspect that something might be wrong when I found myself daydreaming about spaghetti during the lecture. Immediately upon being let out, I ran to the dining hall to see if pasta was on the menu. What I saw vaguely resembled spaghetti, but with gobs of white plastic stuck to the noodles and it didn't look at all appetizing.

"What is this?" I demanded of the woman behind the steamtable.

"American cheese," she told me.

"Ugh," I said, feeling myself turn green. "You should be ashamed."

When I got home I wolfed down the remains of the previous evening's meal, telling Red something about leftovers always being better the second time around.

The next morning Red caught me in the kitchen making some wake-up coffee and quietly trying to open a jar of Ragu.

I was a little embarrassed. "Seemed like a good idea," I weakly offered.

"Picasso had his blue period," Red said, "and I'll be able to say I knew Goldfarb during his pasta phase."

We both took it as a joke, but that night when he returned from work and found me eating spaghetti again his laugh turned to a contemptuous sneer.

"White sauce?" He asked. "Is there something wrong?"

"Clam sauce," I replied defensively. "And I don't care to discuss it."

But I wasn't going to get out of it so easily. Red was determined to confront me with my errors.

"It's not normal to eat spaghetti all the time," he told me. "Only crazy people do that."

"Stupid me," I said. "Of course you're right. I'm glad you cared enough to say something about it. This is entirely irrational, I know, and I've got to make some changes."

"Being aware of the problem is a good first step," Red told me. "It's probably not good for you to eat spaghetti day after day. You'll ruin your health."

"Maybe you're right," I said, setting down my fork. "It's not good to limit myself. Why, there's lots of things in the world besides spaghetti, right? Like rigatoni and fettuccini. Maybe I'll make some lasagna..."

"No, wait a minute," Red interrupted. "That's not what I meant. Don't infer..."

"...or ravioli, maybe manicotti..."

He continued to protest, but my ears had become deaf. I was caught up in a rapture of the sauce, playing with visions of pasta and green olives, huge stomach-boggling mounds of scampi, veal parmesan and linguini. "Oregano," I dreamily cried through half-closed eyes. "We must have some spices."

The preoccupation with things Italian grew more intense, threatening to overwhelm me. I wrestled with impulses to squeeze every cheek I met. Mama mia!

Could I stop? Would I stop? Never, never, never, nev-

My dietary aberration became hard to conceal. Friends started asking about the jugs of olive oil I brought home. What could I tell them? How could I explain this awful fascination, this terrible obsession with Italian cuisine, this horrible comestible desire?

Pasta consumed my life, eating away at my mind. At night I dreamt about platters of noodles drenched in thick spicy tomato sauce and smothered by grated cheese. Most of my waking moments were spent thinking about my next ravioli. I hid stuffed shells around the house to devour on the sly. Give up pasta? I confronted myself. Nary a noodle ever again? Never!

By the time I saw Red again I had come to grips with my morbid al dente compulsion, and accepted in my heart that I have a pathological weakness for spaghetti.

Red came to be able to deal with it. He said, "How'd your day go, man?"

"Oh shut up," I replied. "And pass the parmesan, paisano."