March 5, 2013
It would be difficult to pick from the women with whom I have eked out a successful relationship. Usually during casual conversations, I have been asked to do just that. I've not responded with any kind of intelligible answer because it's just not possible
Don't you agree?
But if it were, there has to be that one trait that would push one lady over the top. So, having thought it over on that basis, I have my answer. The next time I'm asked, my answer will be, “The one that can pull off making Breakfast Spaghetti.”
She made it for me once and left me wanting more. I waited several years, but darn, never got it again.
Naturally, being an accomplished cook myself, I tried to make it on more than one occasion. I was never able to do it myself, I always ended up making a burrito instead. And while I like burritos, they got old after a while. Especially since I was taught from childhood to make them with beans, not pasta. I was simply unable to wrap a tortilla around spaghetti and call it breakfast.
And, too, spaghetti is simply not compatible with pickled Jalapeno peppers with onions and carrots “En Escabeche”.
But so much for that, back to the spaghetti:
What with the eggs, onions, peppers, halved tiny tomatoes, everything smothered in romano and mozzarella cheeses, you knew this was not your mother's spaghetti. Bacon led the way, no beef allowed. Cybil treated a strip of bacon as if it was the guest of honor.
It was, you know.
In fact, she started with it, added the eggs, veggies and then the pasta and flipped like a pro to coat everything together into an odoriferous mass. I was there once. I got to watch the whole cooking operation. I shivered in delight and then actually ate it.
|Proven Spaghetti Eater|
And then that was it, I never got to do it again.
I was broken-hearted and spent the next four years waiting, just waiting on the off chance a burst of breakfast spaghetti might show itself again. It never happened and my love of the stuff was never again satisfied.
I sit here today with my teddies and my memories of yesteryear when women were women and men gulped down huge amounts of spaghetti. Sure, I have my dogs, my homes, my booze, my sports cars and an adoring cadre of young beauties but none compare to a fully mature, lovely spaghetti cooker.
Time is growing short and is not now on my side. I doubt there is enough of it left to find that one woman that will allow me to say that I have known and appreciated several women, two of whom dared to cook breakfast spaghetti at least once.
Pray for me, I'm turning into a string bean,