Tonight I ate a bowl of juicy pasta.  When pasta or pizza are wet, it’s a good time.  This was fresh cappellini with your standard tomato and basil and swirl of parm.  It was juicy, and it made me realize what a good time twirling is.  Pasta twirled on a spoon, as it steams, the fragrant garlic smelling almost of marijuana, is a Sunday activity that ought to be listed in the “about town” section.  More of us should do it.  I miss Italy, where pasta isn’t one of the deadly sins.  The matching accessories, scarves and sunglasses, the lunches with wine.  Shopping, walking, and piazzas with dueling pianos.

On my walk home, after dinner, I thought about what I want more of in my life.  Pasta.  Cooking.  And someone to share it with, even if someone isn’t one person.  Maybe it’s friends.  The problem is, it’s not the same, sharing it with a friend.  It’s just not.  Before dinner, I sat at the theatre holding hands with a man.  I love my friends just as much, but I wouldn’t hold their hands and squeeze them when parts of the movie meant something to me.  I wish it wasn’t different with friends.  I wish I could get that thrill from my friends.  Friends don’t leave.  I wish I could make myself feel the way he makes me feel.  That way no one could ever take it away.  I wish I could make myself feel good like that, excited and hopeful, beyond a bowl of pasta on a Sunday evening.  Even fresh pasta with infused oil and food mill pressed sauce doesn’t give me hope.  Knowing it’s out there for the taking, though, does.