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Oct. 31st, 2008 08:58 pm"There's a neurotic language of pasta," he told me cheerily.
I stood in his kitchen nervously.
"I spent a long time identifying everything I'm neurotic about. Every strand of irrational in my head. I assigned each one a pasta ingredient, and over time I came to associate the ingredient with the doubt or fear or anger or whatever. So when I'm upset, I toss together a pasta with all the right ingredients with some penne, cook it up, and eat it, and I always feel a lot better. Acknowledhe the trouble then disregard it, that's what I say."
That actually sounds pretty good, I thought, and it must have shown on my face, because he scowled at me, "You can't have any. My pasta makes other people go inside. I made you some soup instead."
Happy Hannukah!
I stood in his kitchen nervously.
"I spent a long time identifying everything I'm neurotic about. Every strand of irrational in my head. I assigned each one a pasta ingredient, and over time I came to associate the ingredient with the doubt or fear or anger or whatever. So when I'm upset, I toss together a pasta with all the right ingredients with some penne, cook it up, and eat it, and I always feel a lot better. Acknowledhe the trouble then disregard it, that's what I say."
That actually sounds pretty good, I thought, and it must have shown on my face, because he scowled at me, "You can't have any. My pasta makes other people go inside. I made you some soup instead."
Happy Hannukah!
