07\23\25 - Made Just Right

We had some car troubles this morning taking my Mom to her appointments. I didn’t want to risk breaking down (the car, of course- not me) in the middle of town, so we made a detour to my place. I, of course, as is tradition, am panicking. Mom doesn’t seem to be concerned about anything other than getting something to eat. I promised her that we would grab lunch somewhere, but something homemade would have to suffice.

While Dessie Mae is a big fan of breakfast foods, she sometimes has a craving for spaghetti. She will often order the dish from the local Italian restaurant when we go, but they, as she says, “never get it right”.

Spaghetti was one of my father’s favorite meals. He loved this dish with spaghetti noodles and chilli; we would often go out of the way, the few times we traveled to Tulsa, to this place called ‘Steak n’ Shake’. He would say the ‘Chili Mac’ there reminded him of home. Around his birthday, I’d stop by the ‘Steak and Shake’ in Tulsa to honor his memory with an order. I confess that I did not and still do not have the taste for it. There’s something about the sweetness of the chili they use that I’m not used to.

Anyway, Mom’s spaghetti is fairly simple- noodles, canned sauce, and ground beef. Sometimes, she would chop up leftover onion and throw it in while browning the beef for some added flavor. Nothing fancy or too involved- but enough to get us all through to the next meal.

Up until my father passed away, Mom worked overnights at the Indian hospital in town as a nurse, often working upwards of 60 hours a week.

She would come home, cook breakfast, go to sleep, wake up as I came home from school, cook dinner, iron her uniform, and go back. In all of that, she made sure she prepared a meal for her family- even if it wasn’t too much to write home about.

I’ve never cooked in front of Mom before. Often, too often, I cook too many servings and put them in to-go containers. Every month, I order those little black meal prep bowls with the see-through lids- you know the ones.

Whenever I cook something that isn’t prepared by just boiling or roasting it, I’ll set aside an extra plate in case she wants to try it. Many of the plates I dress up for social media immediately go into such a container to be presented to her later- I prefer to throw my food on a paper plate and scarf it up without much fuss.

Today, I thought I’d try and make spaghetti like she used to, but with my own twist.

As I prepared my pots and pans to make our lunch, she shuffled into the kitchen and sat at my dinner table. Like most things, the kitchen table doubles as storage space- today’s mess was leftover pantry goods I failed to put up the night before. Depending on the day, that table generally holds anything but a meal on it. In other words, that kitchen table rarely has a guest.

I spend most of my meals hunched over the desk in my home office or over the living room coffee table, both surfaces serving as resting places for half a dozen books, many stained with coffee rings or ink spilled by these fancy fountain pens that I really have no business using. The kitchen table at my mom’s house is the same way.

My father would use it as his command center and desk, peering across the large, ornate wooden dining room table; he would look up often to peer into the open grove- indeed, one of the many Shady Groves of which our community is named for and take note of the many animals our acreage called home over the years.

Mom would eat in the living room at her recliner, my brother would simply stand in the kitchen, demolish his plate, and go off to do whatever it is he did, I would take my meals and retreat to my bedroom, and my father would have his meal at the head of the dining room table.

Today, however, we’d share a small meal, a familiar meal, just me and mom, at the kitchen table.

I often give thanks to what I call my assistant chefs, the air fryer and crock pot. Today, I’d let them have the day off.

When the water began to boil and my saucepan got hot, I felt something familiar. Although familiar, I still find it hard to describe.

As I look through the pantry, the fridge, and the freezer, the worries and anxieties about the state of my vehicle have melted away. Before me now is a myriad of possibilities. I’m inspired.

Truth be told, I don’t know what makes a true or proper bolognese. I didn’t even know that’s what “spaghetti” actually is- spaghetti bolognese. If I’m making spaghetti for the kids at work, I’ll do a jar of pasta sauce and dress it up. These days, I cook with fresh produce, but often will go for components for sauces rather than use store-bought ones.

I made this spaghetti using canned tomato sauce as a base. I suppose you could argue (please don’t) that there’s not a big difference between a jar of premade brand pasta sauce and a simple can of tomato sauce- but I find that tomato sauce is thicker than what I used to buy, although I’m also aware both depend on the quality and brand. Like most things I cook, I’m simply using what I have available.

In this base, I add in some chopped up tomatoes and an onion, black pepper, Italian seasoning, and minced garlic. There isn’t much to it. I’ve recently learned that folks who cook tend to look down on their peers who season with cheaper/more accessible spices like the ones I generally use. While I do have spices like nutmeg, paprika, and sage, I find that I generally don’t cook or eat dishes that traditionally use them. I can tell you that my mother has only cooked with table salt and occasionally black pepper. It wasn’t until I was older that I learned what anything else was, what they tasted like, and how each can enhance a dish.

However, today’s meal isn’t about performing the culinary arts; no, this moment is about honoring both a commitment to my mother’s empty stomach and my father’s memory.

Realizing that I had only enough ground beef thawed for tacos tonight, I pivoted and warmed up some frozen meatballs. The churchfolk and kids absolutely go crazy for the humble frozen meatball. Surely Mom would too! Thus, I decided that I would pan fry these meatballs in olive oil and chop them into a ground beef substitute.

As I’m shuffling about the spice rack and flinging cookware around the stove, I sense that my mother has taken her attention away from “that damn phone” (as she is wont to say whenever we go out to eat and I’m not appearing to listen to her) and is just staring in my direction. Mom often jests that I obviously didn’t learn to cook from her, but I’ve come to understand the work that goes into preparing a meal regardless of how complex or simple a dish is. Cooking requires a lot of energy. Yes, I do let my machines help me out, but there’s something equally invigorating about being able to create something that’s sustaining- if briefly. For all the simplicity of my mother’s signature dishes- spaghetti bolognese, chicken livers, fried potatoes and onion- I’ve not once finished a plate feeling that something was missing from it.

And so, even then, with an audience of an honored guest at my dinner table, the anxiety and stress from everything else remains at bay. I have achieved the flow state- I am, as the kids say, “locked-in”. Minutes pass and I’m moving across the entirety of the kitchen- stirring, tasting, adjusting temperature, shuffling cookware- all of this movement and action and mania for something as simple as spaghetti bolognese.

When it is all said and done, I combine all of the components and plate this dish in the most humble of paperware bowls. With bowls of spaghetti and plastic forks in hand, I offer this new creation up to my impromptu guest as the head chef of my household. A familiar family favorite, made in my way, passed from my hands to those hands that have helped hold me.

Gleefully, Mom digs in but eats her first bites in silence. Sheepishly, I ask, “So… How is it?”.

She gives me a big smile and replies: “You got it just right”.