We used to have spaghetti on the nights my father had to stay overnight at work. He liked spaghetti, but it didn’t like him. My mother would cook the sauce all day, and at suppertime, she put big platefuls of spaghetti with extra sauce in front of me and my little brother. It would steam up my glasses, so I would very carefully take them off before digging in. . . .
Sometimes, when I get home late from work, I take a baggie of this spaghetti sauce out of the freezer, nuke it while the pasta is cooking, and for a little while, I’m a child again.