Every so often my father made spaghetti.
For four or six, it mattered not.
He’d bring to a boil the largest pot
filled with water well seasoned with salt
And throw in a pack (and sometimes two) of macaroni.
He’d stand in front of the stove,
Fork in one hand with arms akimbo,
Eyes glued to the boil, stirring the froth
Patiently waiting a minute or two.
Then with a smile he’d pick with the fork
a few slippery strands
Blow air on them as though to seal with a kiss
And together, we’d test for doneness knowing full well
that tasting was half the process.
He liked to see results.
Somewhere in his youth he’d heard the ultimate spaghetti doneness test
Was to throw a strand or two against the wall.
If it stuck it was beyond al dente
If however, it slipped and fell, it needed more of our arm toss.
Finally when half the spaghetti was in our system and across the wall
He’d drain and throw in hefty block of butter.
A quick swirl on the stove top once more and we were served presto.
Years later the mood would strike him with my children.
I would shake my head and get out of his way
While my kids took part and cheered him on without delay.
I’ve no idea what started him off on spaghetti making
But I’m glad he did.
It was exciting.
It made him non serious, mysterious
And our particular one of a kind father.
I cheer him on.