The Pasta Man Cometh Over Anytime

I should explain that the other morning I awoke from a slightly sleep-deprived night, and was feeling a little punchy, trying to grasp the morning news on the TV, when a refreshing commercial made me consider Italian cuisine for dinner that night. The commercial, advertising Italian Barilla spaghetti pasta, would normally not have given me much notice, but that morning, in my brain fog, I imagined myself in the female cook’s place, with a mucho handsome Italian stud living just metres away (just outside an open kitchen window in fact, within sight lines), noticing my failure to produce the perfect bowl of pasta. Intuitively, magically, a box of Barilla spaghetti appears at my doorstep, just in time to still produce a gourmet Italian presentation for dinner guests. Sitting with our guests, my glance through the open window next door meets his dazzling, knowing smile. Aaah, that’s a moment.

A beautiful Italian meal made by my imaginary neighbour

Then I happened to mention to my Hubby who was getting dressed that that scenario was what every wife secretly desired – to have a man (a really gorgeous man is a bonus) who can actually cook, come to your rescue in a kitchen crisis and save a potential dinner party embarrassment! (Hell, even if he couldn’t cook pasta to save his soul, I’d certainly appreciate his visit to my domain to comfort my anxious state.) Hubby’s comment back to me was “Bet you could really cook something up with a guy like that, hee, hee.” (Yes, dear, Italian cooking lessons might be just what I need. Let me lie here and dream a little longer…)

I guess I was still not completely “with it” when I remarked aloud that “maybe we (this Italian Romeo/neighbour/fantastico cook and myself) could share cooking secrets over morning espresso while I learned Italian.” Hubby laughed at me as he pulled on his cardigan. “You know I love you, but our gas range isn’t the only open flame in this house!” I retorted to the empty doorway. Obviously, this commercial had lit a pilot light inside me.

So as I readied myself for my day, and sipped on my regular mug of java, I pondered the thought of an imaginary Italian cooking idol living next door instead of a divorcee with her aged cats. It’s just not fair … and I was willing to learn a few Italian words besides “mangiare, mangiare!”