When I was a boy, my mother made yummy spaghetti.
She made it often, and my brother and I cleaned
our plates every time without argument.
Before I left for college, I wanted to know how to make
this delicious recipe. Garlic powder, Onion powder, basil,
oregano, etc. "Italian Seasoning", she said.
One by one, she shook the herb containers like she was making a martini.
"A little of this, this much of that, and about....that much of this."
I'm confused. "How do you know, how much," I ask?
She points at the simmering pot, "That much."
That was my lesson, and it worked well
through the years whenever I wanted a quick spaghetti dinner.
After 20 years of her baby boy being away from home,
I am back. Unexpectedly, but I am here.
The first time she cooked her spaghetti with meat sauce,
I was perplexed. She didn't make a plate for herself.
"Mom. You're not going to eat with us," I asked?
"I'm making something for myself," she replied.
Confused, I asked her why,
and she said, "I don't like pasta."
"Yes, you do," I correct her. "You made it all
the time when I was a kid."
"I know," she said, "I just never liked it."
I have to ask, "Then, why did you make it
all the time?"
She said, "Because you liked it."
"That's it", I ask?
"Well yeah", she said, "You were my little boys."
It took me 38 years to notice she didn't eat pasta.
I need to pay more attention.