2011 Retrospective - Spaghetti

Everything’s better with butter. The onions sizzle, gently turning translucent, then golden brown. The aroma of sautéed onions and garlic fills the air, wafting up from the old copper-bottomed pot. I love that smell, and the ones that follow. Rosemary, oregano, thyme; I throw them all into the pot and smell them flavouring the air. I look over at the table at my wife, radiant in her sapphire gown. It’s our anniversary, our 42^nd, and I’m cooking her favourite dish. She’s smiling, her beautiful blue eyes crinkling at the corners. I know those eyes well, and not just her eyes. I know every nuance of her face, the curve of her lips, her high cheekbones, the slightest hint of a widow’s peak atop her smooth forehead. I smile back through the delicious steam and attend to dinner.

I put the spaghetti on to boil and empty the tins of tomato into the pot. The cut edges of the can threaten me but I avoid bodily harm, being long accustomed to their menace, and that of the knives. The white scars on my fingers can attest to that. There is danger here, in this kitchen. With so much heat and so many sharp implements, it seems miraculous that I’ve survived this long. But the kitchen is my domain and I wouldn’t leave it. She understands that, and lets me have my way. To tell you the truth, I think she was relieved, for it let her get on with other, less mundane things.

My hands fly over the chopping board, neatly slicing zucchini, carrot and silverbeet, flicking them into the simmering red sauce one after the other. This was the first thing I cooked for her, all those years ago. This was the dish I wooed her with when I first invited her to dinner. We were both in college then.  Both so busy, with our hours of study and our part time jobs. Yet despite all that, despite all of the demands on our time, we always had managed to find an hour just to be together. Sometimes I cooked for her, sometimes we were both so tired that we just had cheap takeout. But no matter what our plans, we were always together.

I drain the spaghetti in the sink, setting it on the table next to the finished sauce and the salad bowl. A  plate from the cupboard, a fork from the drawer, and a single place at the table. Just one. I settle down with a sigh, looking across at her. We’ve been through a lot together. We raised our children, set them loose on the world and hoped for the best. We carried each other through floods, and sickness, and grief. No matter how hard it was, our love kept us together. Not a day goes by that I don’t love her more and more. I reach out and gently touch her face, still smiling in the mahogany picture frame. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her.