Anthony comes running.
It's Wednesday. It's Prince Spaghetti Day, according to an ad from my childhood.
My grandmother, mother and father made excellent spaghetti sauce. There wasn't a drop of Italian DNA in any of our bodies.
At university I lived in a boarding house run by a widow who also lost her 10-year-old daughter. She believed that Wednesday was Prince Spaghetti Day was the 11th commandment. Hers was not as good as my family, but we appreciated her efforts.
When I was married, our landlady would often invite us to eat when she made her "gravy" her word for spaghetti sauce.
I renovated a house in Boston with two other adults. Many Saturday mornings we would put spaghetti sauce on the stove in the morning to simmer all day while we worked on the house.
It was so good in the evening with a glass of wine and salad. Some batches even had the homegrown tomatoes from out victory garden on the Fenway. It was more Saturday was Prince Spaghetti Day.
After my dad died I was helping my beloved stepmom clear out his belongings. We ate the sauce he had prepared and frozen before his death, the Jimmy Memorial Spaghetti and didn't miss him quite as much because in a way he was still with us.
I've eaten spaghetti in Boston's Italian North End, France, Switzerland Scotland and Italy. It is always more than a meal. It's a way of life, but the best conjures up a woman calling out a window for Anthony.
Watch the ad at www.youtube.com/watch?v=P8ti1hnLiLw
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