I was able to spend four hours this morning working on the piece about Thailand. Oddly enough, I started getting a yen for pasta afterward and went out in pursuit of ground pork, black olives and Perciatelli noodles to assemble the dish. It has been snowing since before dawn, so the roads were a bit of a mess but I was determined. I purchased ground pork (among other items) at the old-fashioned butcher counter in the little “Russian” market by our house, and by eleven o’clock I had my sauce bubbling.

 

The love-hate relationship I have with pasta and tomato sauce goes back to my childhood. Spaghetti is my mother’s favorite meal – or rather, most anything with tomato sauce (including manicotti, ravioli, lasagna, et al). My father traveled quite a bit during my childhood and teen years, and every time he was gone Mum made spaghetti. We would have the dish for breakfast, lunch and dinner until I thought I would pitch the next plate of pasta I laid my eyes on. Although to be fair I sometimes improvised and simply had butter and noodles rather than adding the sauce (a holdover from my grandmother O’Toole, a snack my father and I like to this day).

 

This quandary continued with my second marriage. My husband at the time was Italian; his mother being the full-blooded version from Naples. Every meal at my mother-in-law’s house included spaghetti and sauce, meatballs and sauce, ravioli and sauce, lasagna and sauce, cavatelli and sauce, pin-points and sauce….I’m sure the pattern is obvious. However, to be honest her sauce was God-awful-terrible; which made eating the food all the more loathsome. Since my husband favored this type of food, I learned how to make the sauce with my own adjustments to yield an edible version. During my second marriage (which lasted an excruciating ten years), I developed another bout of antipathy towards spaghetti, as well as most Italian foods with tomato sauce.

 

My current husband is not a big fan of Italian food, so I find myself on the other side of the spectrum. Despite having a distaste for pasta and sauce most of my adult life, I often crave it if I haven’t had any in a few months. Odd, isn’t it? I wonder how much of my aversion was formed by the “force-feedings” I received during my childhood and second marriage; but once left to my own devices I choose the cuisine willingly. The mind works hand-in-hand with stubborn nature, so I shouldn’t be surprised.