🍝 Blessed be the bolognese

~Sacred are the al dente for they shall never break~

My roommate Chad—wearing nothing but soggy lasagna sheets and red sauce—thrust a ladle at two dozen glassy-eyed strangers sprawled on the floor of our two-bedroom apartment.

~He who stirs the sauce controls the soul~

I pulled him aside. “Dude, this has gone too far.”

“Look at all the food! We’re gonna eat like kings for the rest of the semester.” Chad laughed maniacally.

His plan had started innocently enough. Armed with Psych 101, a dog-eared copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and a craving for home cooking, he’d posted flyers inviting people to exchange pasta dishes for ancient wisdom. 

~Boil your sins and strain your doubts~

“I’m tired of pasta. Sometimes a guy wants a burrito.” I stepped over a lavender-haired man clutching a bowl of manicotti. “Get them out of here before I tell them you microwave spaghetti.”

~Brother, the noodle chooses the bowl~

“What does that even mean?” I snatched the ladle from Chad, marinara spattering his congregation. “You’re from Wisconsin, bro. You’re not even Italian!”

~We live many lives, as pasta has many shapes~

“Out! Get out!” I grabbed the pepper mill from Chad’s makeshift altar, yelling and grinding until the last gluten-drunk disciple left the apartment.   

We collapsed onto the pesto-coated couch. 

“What should we do for dinner?” Chad extracted a meatball from his belly button. 

“Let’s go out.” I replied, exhausted.

Chad slid a gift card from his parmigiana panties. “Olive Garden!” 

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