Chapter 41 The Year of Spaghetti

1971 was the year of spaghetti. In 1971, I continued to cook spaghetti to live and live to cook spaghetti.The steam rising from the aluminum pan is my only glory, and the ketchup gurgling from the powder sauce pan is my only hope. I got a huge aluminum pan big enough for a German shepherd to take a bath in, bought a timer for making pastry, and scoured supermarkets targeting foreign customers, collecting all kinds of seasonings with weird names. The bookstore found a book on spaghetti and bought tons of tomatoes by the dozen. Garlic, onion, salad oil and all kinds of aromas are turned into fine particles, scattered in the air, integrated into one, and sucked into every corner of the room with six stacks of tatami mats.It actually smelled like the sewers of ancient Rome.

What happened in 1971, the year of spaghetti. Basically, I cook the pasta alone and eat the pasta alone.For some reason, it is not uncommon to eat with two people.But I still like to eat alone. I think spaghetti seems to be a dish that should be eaten alone.As for the reason, it is not clear. Spaghetti always comes with tea and salad.There are three cups of black tea in a teapot, and salad with lettuce mixed with cucumbers.Arranging these neatly on the table, squinting at the newspaper for a long time, eating spaghetti alone slowly, from Sunday to Saturday, the days of spaghetti one after another, after this is over, Every new Sunday starts with a new pasta every day.

One eats pasta alone and even now feels as if someone had come into the room when there was a knock at the door, especially on a rainy afternoon. The people who might come into my room are different every time. Sometimes they are people I don’t know; Sometimes it was myself from years ago; sometimes it was William Holden with Jennifer Jones. William Holden? However, none of them came into the room. They seemed to be hesitating, and just wandered outside the room. In the end, they didn't even knock on the door, and disappeared to nowhere. It's raining outside. Spring, summer, and fall, I continue to cook the pasta.It was almost like vengeance on something, like a lonely woman who slipped the old love letters, the bunches, of the wronged man into the fire, and I continued to cook the spaghetti.

I put the trampled shadow of time in a bowl, knead it into the shape of a German shepherd, put it in boiling water, and sprinkle it with salt.And picked up the long chopsticks, stood in front of the aluminum pot, until the kitchen clock "jingling" �� made a mournful sound, I did not leave a step. I couldn't take my eyes off them because spaghetti was so crafty.They seemed to be slipping away from the edge of the pot and lost in the dark night.Just as a primary-coloured butterfly is swallowed into eternal time in a tropical jungle, so the night waits quietly to devour spaghetti.

PoloAnise Spaghetti basilico pasta Mushroom Spaghetti Beef Spaghetti Meat Spaghetti with Tomato Sauce Spaghetti with ham and custard (carboara) Spaghetti with Garlic There are also leftovers in the refrigerator, which are also dumped in a mess, making tragic spaghetti without names. The spaghetti was born in the steam, just like the water of a river, flowing through the slope of time in 1971, and then passing away in a hurry. I mourn for them. Spaghetti in 1971. At 3:20, when the phone rang, I was lying on the tatami and staring at the ceiling.The winter sun, which happens to be only on the part where I lie, creates a sunlit swimming pool.I literally lay there for hours in the December 1971 sun like a dead fly.

At first, it didn't sound like a phone ringing, just like a forgotten fragment of memory slipping in unceremoniously in the air layer.After repeating it several times, I finally started to bring the genre of the telephone ring, and finally became a 100% telephone ring.100% phone ringing vibrating 100% realistic air.Still lying down, I reached for the receiver. The other party on the phone was a girl, and the impression was very faint, as if she was going to disappear without a trace at 4:30 in the afternoon.She was a former girlfriend of a friend of mine.Not very familiar friends, just the degree of meeting and greeting.Strange reasons that seemed plausible made them a couple years ago, and similar reasons broke them up a few months ago.

"Will you tell me where he is?" she said. I looked at the receiver and followed the phone line with my eyes. It was well connected. "Why are you asking me?" "Because no one told me." She said in a cold voice. "where is he?" "I don't know," I said.After saying it, it didn't sound like his own voice at all. She was silent. The earpiece became as cold as an icicle. Then everything around me turned to icicles.Just like J. Q Ballard's sci-fi story-like scene. "I really don't know." I said, "He didn't say anything, so I don't know where he disappeared."

She was smiling on the phone. "He's not such a thoughtful boy, he's a man who can't do anything but rattle." Indeed, as she said, he was a not very smart boy. But I still have no reason to tell her where he lives.If he knows that I said it, it will probably be his turn to call next time.I don't dare to learn from the boring nonsense anymore.Because I've dug a deep hole in my backyard and buried everything in it, and no amount of people can dig it out again. "Sorry." I said. "Do you hate me?" she said suddenly. I don't know how to answer it.Because I didn't have any impression of her.

"Sorry," I repeated, "I'm cooking spaghetti right now." "what?" "I'm cooking spaghetti." I put imaginary water in the pot, and use imaginary matches to light imaginary fire. "So what?" she said. I gently slide the whole handful of spaghetti into the boiling water, sprinkle with the salt of the fantasy, and set the kitchen timer of the fantasy to fifteen minutes. "Right now I'm out of time and stuck in spaghetti." She was silent. "This is a very delicious dish." With the receiver in my hand, it began to slide down the sub-freezing slope again.

"So, can you please wait and call again?" I hasten to add. "Because you're cooking spaghetti?" she said. "Yup. "Are you eating alone?" "Yes." She sighed. "But I'm really troubled." "Sorry I can't help." "There's also a little money issue." "Oh?" "I hope he pays me back." "Sorry." "Italian pasta?" "Ok" She smiled weakly and said, "Goodbye." "Goodbye." I said. When the phone was hung up, the sun pool on the bed had moved a few centimeters.I lay down again in the light, looking at the ceiling.

So sad to think of that handful of spaghetti that was never cooked. Maybe I should have told her everything, and now I regret it.Anyway, the other party is not an extraordinary man. He paints some abstract paintings and wants to be a painter, but he only has the most empty-mouthed man.And maybe she really wanted him to pay her back. She didn't know what was wrong. Could it have been swallowed by the shadow at 4:30 in the afternoon? Dururn Sernoina. Golden-yellow wheat grown on the plains of Italy. How surprised would the Italians be if they knew that what they exported in 1971 was "solitude"?