SPAGHETTI DAYS

Spaghetti and meatballs have always been my favorite comfort food--trumping even chocolate. I know I should prefer haggis and shaved lamb or some Nordic fish chowder, but, I don't. Maybe there was a Gerbers' Babyfood version of meatballs in my past. (Surely, Franco-American and Chef-Boy-Ardee made appearances over the years--especially in college.) And ,when asked what my final meal  might be if I was headed for electrocution (it was THAT kind of party...) I only hesitated a moment between  full-on- authentic-Thai  and spaghetti . (Guess which won?)

Something about the combination of garlic, olive oil, onions, peppers and meat--or that steaming, bubbling giant pot on the stove, promising a reward if one could (or would) just leave the top on and let everything simmer for a couple hours... Even in my vegetarian days in L.A., I would often choose a vegan version of this classic, trying to mask the omitted ingredients with a smile of Planetary Consciousness. (It rarely worked.)

This morning, Mom was up at dawn, as usual. She and Dad were already reading the local, morning news,( the  national news blaring on the other side of their papers), their coffee cups drained, as I limped downstairs.The dog wagged her tail expectantly, but didn't get up from her warm spot on the rug. Outside, the raggedy wind promised a chilling day, even if there were patches of sun. I could feel winter in my bad knee. (I was looking for an excuse not to do the morning laps up at the college track... )I hobbled to the kitchen for breakfast.

As I approached the stove, something more powerful than a sibling's rude shove woke me! Already bubbling, sending up bursts of tomato fireworks, The Giant Pot beckoned. Flooding memories of coming home in exactly this kind of nippy weather; my nose just starting to run from the cold; the rush of warmth from the kitchen; the curtain of aromas from the sauce, enveloping me--ahh--

Mom calls from the parlor, nonchalantly: "Spaghetti for supper...I was going to make American Chop Suey, but we are out of ground beef..."

(American Chop Suey???!!! What an oxymoron! Blahh! Yick! Ugh! I thank all the Spaghetti Angels in Heaven for this blessing of the missing meat!)  I am almost giddy as I sip my first cup o java at the kitchen table.

"You know, she doesn't make her own meatballs anymore..." Ann has followed me downstairs, the dog yipping at her Crocs.

"What?!" I am pulled from my pseudo-Italian reverie.

"Nope...she buys them, frozen, from BJ's...then she slips them into the sauce, half-way....I'm just warning you..." Ann begins to make tea.

I am horrified.

Years before,away at school, I begged Mom for her spaghetti and meatball secrets. (A recipe I could call my own. Something that no matter what, would be able to feed an army--or a cozy couple.) Mom refused.

"You'll never be able to do it--" 

"Come on, Mom!" I was in New York, calling from a pay- phone in my dorm.

"You should have watched me when you had the chance--you've seen me make it a million times but you never paid attention..." 

"Please! It's the only thing I ever wanted to learn to cook!" I was begging...embarrassed, but desperate.

"Well, I don't have an actual recipe...so I can't give it to you..." 

(Now, I wander around,  in this epoch of Foodies, one of the few American adults without a recipe of my own.) I know it shows as surely as the Mark of Cain...

"It's evolved...now she does different things to the sauce," Ann sips her tepid tea.

"She's always done different things--"

"No, I mean REALLY different things..." Ann rolls her big blue eyes.

"Such as?" I am totally flabbergasted.

"Well, for one thing, those damned BJ's meatballs--and then, if she doesn't have any more salted herbs, well, just forget it," Ann shuts her eyes completely.

"Salted herbs?"

"They only make them in Maine--" Ann glances towards the ceiling.

"In MAINE?" 

"Lewiston...and they only make so many each season..." Ann stirs her tea.

"Lewiston, MAINE?!!" (How long has this been going on? I don't remember any "salted herbs" around 88 Maple Street, growing up...)

"A place called Mallots...I think that's the name...yup. She tried ordering them over the phone, last year when she ran out, but they said it wasn't economically feasible to send them up on dry ice...so we had to have sauce without the real recipe for months...I'm telling you...you do NOT want sauce without the salted herbs."

"What's the big deal? I mean, is it garlic in salt, maybe rosemary?" I sit down, worn out already.

"Yeah and basil and thyme and God knows...it is just an integral part of the process," Ann sips more tea.

"And if there's no salted herbs--" I can't choke out the rest.

"Then ...well...it's just like the meatballs...I'm warning you, is all. Sorry, kiddo..." Ann shrugs in a decidedly "nurselike" way.

"We were just up there!"

"I know--but it was too late. Did you see any salted herbs around?" Ann demands.

"I didn't even know we were looking," I am so sad.

"Well, I was looking...but then, I know how to cook," Ann grins and leaves the kitchen, her hand around the  mug of tea.

I move to the still simmering pot on the stove. The tomatoes are roiling. The flecks of green and olive are bouncing around, ricoccheting off  the sweet sausage links already in the brew. Transparent onions slither in and out of sight. I let the steam fog my glasses and fill my head. (Salted herbs or BJ's meatballs, it still smells like home to me.)