Read Online I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti by Giulia Melucci - Free Book Online
Authors: Giulia Melucci
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Day get-up-late-and-hang-around-all-day-in-your-pajamas larder.
There’d be smoked salmon and bagels for breakfast and kosher hot dogs with knishes to eat for the rest of the day, along with
the traditional Italian lentils my mother would insist we have “at least a spoonful” of for good luck in the coming year.
Our pantry contained nearly as many Manischewitz products as it did Progresso, and it was not unusual for her to make us potato
latkes or matzo-ball soup.
I felt really comfortable sitting next to Ethan that evening. He was as enthusiastic a diner as I was and an even funnier
dinner partner. We laughed at Stacey’s German boyfriend, a film producer of dubious promise who dismissed the meal in a thick
German accent, explaining that the couple really preferred to eat “small, healthy dishes.” I wanted to be Ethan’s Jewish wife
and feed him these large, fattening dishes on a regular basis. I got the feeling that Stacey thought we’d be a good match,
too. “Do you know that he got a perfect score on his LSAT but decided not to go to law school?” she told me when we were alone
together with the dishes. As if I needed any further reason to want Ethan.
But there was something deeper that attracted me to Ethan. Something in him that cried out “Take care of me” in a voice tempered
with wariness. He presented a challenge that was tailor-made for me: There was Ethan’s wall and my determination to bust through
it—a perfect pairing.
Our first date was Valentine’s Day. I asked
him
out, selling it as an “anti–Valentine’s Day date,” though for me that couldn’t have been further from the truth. The idea
came to me at work one morning (where sheer boredom allowed me to get inventive with my personal life). Anne, who had just
started dating a Buddhist poet she was pretty into (whom Ginia later dated to the same counternirvana result), bestowed her
blessings upon my idea. A few hours later, I was out to lunch with Kit of all people; as we were crossing Sixth Avenue,
bingo,
we ran into Ethan. I took this as a sign that God too endorsed my plan, so I came right out with it.
“Ethan! So weird running into you, I was just thinking about you,” I squealed.
“Really, what were you thinking?” he replied cautiously.
“Well, Saturday is Valentine’s Day and you don’t have a girlfriend and I don’t have a boyfriend and all our friends do. We
should go out together so we don’t end up at home alone like big losers.”
“I’ll consider that,” Ethan said. “I’ll give you a call.”
Over sushi, Kit gave it to me straight: To his male eye, Ethan could not have appeared less interested. I later discovered
that Ethan had a gift for allowing others to interpret his moods and reactions rather than actively making them known. Kit
saw what he was inclined to see, and so did I; I protested that Ethan had been delighted by my invitation. My reading turned
out to be accurate: Ethan called the next morning to say he did indeed want to have dinner with me on Saturday.
We decided to go to the Red Rose, an old-school Italian restaurant, one of the last vestiges of the Italian-American working
class that were being priced out of our neighborhood. Walking down chronically run-down Smith Street, where a recently opened
French bistro and handbag boutique sparked hope of renewal in the hearts of the locals, Ethan sneered: “A restaurant and a
bag store does not make a revival.” I found his cynicism amusing, but frankly, I was excited about the French bistro and bag
store. I made us stop to look in Patois, which was packed with couples eating a better meal than we were going to get at the
Red Rose. When we got there and took our seats, I was embarrassed, and not just because the waiter offered us a bottle of
red wine with pink hearts on the label. Now that I had Ethan where I wanted him, my confidence left me. I couldn’t think of
anything remotely
There’d be smoked salmon and bagels for breakfast and kosher hot dogs with knishes to eat for the rest of the day, along with
the traditional Italian lentils my mother would insist we have “at least a spoonful” of for good luck in the coming year.
Our pantry contained nearly as many Manischewitz products as it did Progresso, and it was not unusual for her to make us potato
latkes or matzo-ball soup.
I felt really comfortable sitting next to Ethan that evening. He was as enthusiastic a diner as I was and an even funnier
dinner partner. We laughed at Stacey’s German boyfriend, a film producer of dubious promise who dismissed the meal in a thick
German accent, explaining that the couple really preferred to eat “small, healthy dishes.” I wanted to be Ethan’s Jewish wife
and feed him these large, fattening dishes on a regular basis. I got the feeling that Stacey thought we’d be a good match,
too. “Do you know that he got a perfect score on his LSAT but decided not to go to law school?” she told me when we were alone
together with the dishes. As if I needed any further reason to want Ethan.
But there was something deeper that attracted me to Ethan. Something in him that cried out “Take care of me” in a voice tempered
with wariness. He presented a challenge that was tailor-made for me: There was Ethan’s wall and my determination to bust through
it—a perfect pairing.
Our first date was Valentine’s Day. I asked
him
out, selling it as an “anti–Valentine’s Day date,” though for me that couldn’t have been further from the truth. The idea
came to me at work one morning (where sheer boredom allowed me to get inventive with my personal life). Anne, who had just
started dating a Buddhist poet she was pretty into (whom Ginia later dated to the same counternirvana result), bestowed her
blessings upon my idea. A few hours later, I was out to lunch with Kit of all people; as we were crossing Sixth Avenue,
bingo,
we ran into Ethan. I took this as a sign that God too endorsed my plan, so I came right out with it.
“Ethan! So weird running into you, I was just thinking about you,” I squealed.
“Really, what were you thinking?” he replied cautiously.
“Well, Saturday is Valentine’s Day and you don’t have a girlfriend and I don’t have a boyfriend and all our friends do. We
should go out together so we don’t end up at home alone like big losers.”
“I’ll consider that,” Ethan said. “I’ll give you a call.”
Over sushi, Kit gave it to me straight: To his male eye, Ethan could not have appeared less interested. I later discovered
that Ethan had a gift for allowing others to interpret his moods and reactions rather than actively making them known. Kit
saw what he was inclined to see, and so did I; I protested that Ethan had been delighted by my invitation. My reading turned
out to be accurate: Ethan called the next morning to say he did indeed want to have dinner with me on Saturday.
We decided to go to the Red Rose, an old-school Italian restaurant, one of the last vestiges of the Italian-American working
class that were being priced out of our neighborhood. Walking down chronically run-down Smith Street, where a recently opened
French bistro and handbag boutique sparked hope of renewal in the hearts of the locals, Ethan sneered: “A restaurant and a
bag store does not make a revival.” I found his cynicism amusing, but frankly, I was excited about the French bistro and bag
store. I made us stop to look in Patois, which was packed with couples eating a better meal than we were going to get at the
Red Rose. When we got there and took our seats, I was embarrassed, and not just because the waiter offered us a bottle of
red wine with pink hearts on the label. Now that I had Ethan where I wanted him, my confidence left me. I couldn’t think of
anything remotely
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