Yesterday I made spaghetti.
Homemade spaghetti with the sauce based on my Nana's recipe.
It takes at least six hours to cook and because of the tradition, it is a bit of an event when I do make it.
When I started it yesterday morning, I had all sorts of fun ideas about a blog that I could incorporate the spaghetti into. Ideas about how my family life growing up gave me an emotional dependence on food, how making this traditional dish made me feel better, how I have one giant wooden spoon that only gets used for making spaghetti, how nostalgic the smell of the sauce made me...
All of these ideas circulating as I dumped the cans of tomato in the sauce pot.
Even more ideas as I thought about how anxious I was (for no reason), and how this comfort food would help.
The spaghetti was amazing. I plan on making meatball bombers for the hubby this week with the sauce and enjoying leftovers for at least a few days.
The disappointment? It did not leave me with a feeling of contentment like I wanted. I wanted to sit back after eating and breathe a sigh of relief.
I ate, then realized how big of a mess making spaghetti is.
Not quite as relaxing as I would have liked.
Maybe this means that I need to look deeper for contentment.
Maybe this means that I need to start making bigger life changes and not base my moods on the hope that spaghetti will fix my ailments.
Maybe I think too much....