New Story

At the end of a long week of work, art and what is life, I got home. Took out the largest pot I had, filled it with water, boiled it and watched Spaghetti slide in, adding some oil and salt. I took the largest pan I had and made the sauce: tonno, chick peas, plum tomatos, garlic, and some eccentric ginger. Then I took the biggest bowl I had, heaped as much Spaghetti as I could and as much sauce as it would take, and ate it, bowl after bowl, each with teaser shavings of Parmigiano.  That was my weekend. When I need to recover, I go to my version of Italian. That is what I told my bartender friend Haruki, when I returned to work on Monday.

Haruki eventually closed the bar and moved on.  But bar folks eventually find each other, beer flows through us all. I saw Haruki a few years later at a new bar I was working, and he told me he wrote a short story about my Spaghetti. I didnt think much of it. I didnt think there was much of a story either. Sometimes you just have to spend the weekend eating spaghetti, or drinking beer, or whatever. But that weekend, I needed to eat spaghetti.