Spaghetti: A Love Story

the secret sauce to life and dinner

A pasta goddess, Ms. Sophia Loren

The first meal I ever made from scratch was spaghetti with red sauce. I used to eat it so fast that the pasta would knot together in my throat. I would risk it all and take a few more bites before reaching for a beverage to dislodge my gluttony. I wanted all of it, all at once; breathing was superfluous. The garlic and onions simmering in warm olive oil, the acidic sweetness of the tomatoes, the soft but firm texture of a perfectly cooked noodle, the occasional leaves of fresh basil tossed on top- it’s almost too much. Every plate of spaghetti is a masterpiece, but its pervasiveness as a meal has dulled our senses to its brilliance. 

Spaghetti was my first love, and I remember when it got serious. I spent countless hours playing in the home of my childhood best friend, Jackie, while her mother, Donna, made the most incredible meals. The smell of her sauce simmering away on the stove, wafting down the hallway would immediately halt whatever game of pretend Jackie and I had going on. I’d scramble to the kitchen to hopefully coax out an invitation to stay for dinner. I was a shameless 8-year-old, and Donna was a saint. 

After the obligatory call to my mom promising that I hadn’t invited myself, I’d get to stay and dine with the family. I’d try to keep my portion the same size as the rest of the kids. I wanted to be invited back. I made sure to not be the first to reach for a second helping, and worked hard to hide my urge to grab the pot and run off into the night. Just me and spaghetti. I don’t think I was alone in this. Spaghetti is a staple of children’s entertainment, from the iconic scene in Lady and the Tramp to the classic book Strega Nona. What’s not to love about a kitchen witch whose magic pasta pot almost drowns a whole town when her new assistant Big Anthony tries to use it to show off? It’s a perfect story. I think that’s why it can be such a comfort to us as adults. It’s a magical food that’s also attainable. Spaghetti has been there for us when we’re broke, when we’re celebrating a promotion, when we’re feeling romantic. After years of watching me obsess over her spaghetti and red sauce, Donna did something I never saw coming. She taught me how to make it.

a historically accurate re-creation

I was invited into her kitchen to watch the process. It had never occurred to me that I could make it myself. Donna taught me how to see the changes in the onions as they cooked, when it was time to add the garlic, which canned tomatoes were best, and how long to let it all simmer. I learned how to smell and see the differences in the pot at each stage, and at the end I was rewarded with a big plate of pasta and the typed-out recipe. It felt like I had learned a spell. Teaching someone to cook is about much more than food. You’re showing them how to create something out of thin air, how to work towards a goal and accomplish it. Cooking builds confidence and independence. We downplay the importance of cooking for ourselves and the lessons it can teach us because so much would have to change if we really saw its value. Our culture would be upended if we saw cooking for the dominant, authoritative work that it is. The people who traditionally prepare our daily foods- most often women- would have to matter. And we can’t have that. So much messaging around food, particularly to girls, is about restrictions, what to eat to take up less space, while learning to cook is expansive. Donna gave me the ability to get exactly what I wanted- spaghetti- whenever I wanted it. I was in control of fulfilling my needs. I felt powerful. It was a hell of a lesson for a tween girl.

The first time I made the recipe at home, I read it over and tried to visualize myself cooking each step. I still do this — picture myself doing everything first to anticipate any hurdles. Was the strainer in the sink? Should I open the cans now since the can opener is dull as hell? My mom hovered near by, far enough that I could claim I did it on my own, but close enough so that if things went sideways, she could step in. It was obvious that I wanted to be in control, and she gave me the space to find my limits. Like all new cooks, I second-guessed myself at every step. I pored over the recipe like there were secrets hidden on the page that I’d somehow missed. My cheeks reddened from the steam as I drained the pasta into the sink. I was starting to understand the things my mom and her friends whispered about on the phone, what it really took to feed a family. I was being invited behind the curtain of real life, one step at a time. The resulting meal was close enough to Donna’s recipe; I was thrilled. Nothing washes down spaghetti and red sauce like pride.

I’ve made spaghetti and a version of tomato sauce thousands of times since that day, tweaking the recipe to accommodate my evolving palate. I’ve used fresh tomatoes, roasted red peppers, grilled tomatoes, you name it. It doesn’t get old; magic never does. The first meal I made for my wife was spaghetti with red sauce. It’s comfort. It’s love. 

Everything in life changes, but my relationship with spaghetti has stayed the same. I’m still finding my limits, and it still fuels my desires while I learn to take up space. As more and more famous women are shrinking themselves to match current beauty trends, let’s not leave pasta behind. Hunger can be fuel, just like spaghetti. Don’t ignore it. Let the world be scared of you- a person who knows what they want and goes after it. Dora Jane Hamblin wrote about Sophia Loren’s love of food in an interview for Life Magazine in 1961. “She eats everything in sight, washed down with red wine, and when teased about her appetite narrows her eyes in her best temptress look, swivels her shoulders provocatively and says in a Mae West voice, ‘Everything you see, I owe to spaghetti.’" Amen, Sophia. It’s a love story, even when the pasta catches in my throat, even when I’m too tired and use jarred sauce. Everything you see, I owe to spaghetti. 

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