Tackle Something Big


(Julius?) Moser (* 1808): Spaghetti essender J...

A Picture of Me.  Dopo Spaghetti.

I have been told my post titles mislead people.  Really?  Well, pish posh to that!

I am indeed in the mood to tackle something big, really big, something like a big plate of spaghetti, meatballs, and tomato sugo.  I might even go out on a limb and add extra meatballs, big meatballs.  I have to admit, too, that I might prefer it as a serving of pappardelle rather than all-too-American spaghetti.  Pile it on and giggle!  Be happy.  Tackle something big…


Alas I had a friend who would join me for dinner — and, yes, if you think it is you, it is you — and we would laugh and talk and eat.  Most nights I would get her meatballs.

That  isn’t quite as perverse as that sounds, by the way.  Just meatballs…your standard high-end (as if!) meatball fare, made to the scale of baseballs, waiting politely beneath a smothering mound of pasta and red sauce.  Rare was the night some of these didn’t end up in a meatball sandwich the next day.

Sadly I discovered that if you laugh and talk while dining alone, the restaurant staff is less likely to open that second bottle of Brunello di Montalcinio.

Perhaps tonight I should keep it all to a quiet whisper.  Or payback the old guy at the end of the bar who talks too much and too often.


There is a lot to tackle.  I am not misleading anyone.  Facing a bowl of pasta can in itself can be a big thing and more, with each ribbon of al dente pasta acting like a cord stretching back to memory’s cheerful past.  (Drink a little wine and the image becomes much more convincing.)  It is hard not to sigh, even if sighing isn’t the manly thing to do, especially in the face of something big.





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