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  • Writer's pictureLeah Jones

Behind the Music… er… pasta

Last night to the outside world, I presented a perfect picture of domesticity. One rarely seen by my friends or family. I effortlessly made dinner for Rock N Roll.


A simpler dinner could not be found. Open soup can, dump in pot, turn on fire, stir sometimes, put into bowls. Boil water, add salt & oil, add pasta, cook, strain, serve. Turn on fire, open jar of sauce, pour some in, heat, stir sometimes.

Every time Rock n Roll was in the kitchen, he saw competance. Every time he left the kitchen I did things like splash boiling speghetti water all over my pants, realize I’d only made one undercooked serving of pasta instead of two, scrape the sauce off of the undercooked pasta, add water, and microwave. Deftly change now cooked pasta to a clean plate and add cooling sauce.

Present burnt soup and cold undercooked pasta as a perfect dinner with pink wine in funky glasses.

Does anyone remember the time I burnt tomato soup when I lived in Millikin East Apartments? The night I used beer instead of cooking oil in my wok cause it was the only liquid in my apartment to cook with? I didn’t warn Rock n Roll that I’m a kitchen disaster, I just said, “Go park the car, I can take it from here.”

Yes. I can bake bread from scratch, but I can’t seem to make pasta for two. By the time we sat down for dinner, I’d faked my way into a delightful dinner. I only had soup, but he swore the pasta was delicious. After dessert (ice cream, of course, from my shop) I even washed dishes while we boiled water for tea.

“What are you doing?”

Yeah? What was I doing? Who took over and washed dishes while standing in my body? I guess I think I’ll woo him with my Betty Crocker skills while he’s in the kitchen and my secret microwave skills when he steps out.

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