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Spaghetti

Spaghetti is always a staple in Christmas and New Year, that's for sure.

And believe me, I've been alive for nineteen years and as far as my memory goes, we never had a year when we didn't prepare spaghetti for the Christmas season. As for my birthday, well, Pancit is my best friend. Although that's another story to tell.

My grandmother makes the best spaghetti. But now... she doesn't make it often, especially when I was expecting her to do it in the holidays. My aunt usually does the cooking for the spaghetti. As for how it tastes like... let's just say that my grandmother's version is better in a whole another level.

I figured out I am one of the reasons why she doesn't cook it anymore. Sure, she cooks it in random occasions (sometimes even if there's no occasion at all) and of course, during Mom's birthday. I'm the reason because I liked carbonara more than spaghetti.

It was one Christmas when she decided to cook both spaghetti and carbonara. Me, the absolute foodie, of course (my weight will explain the rest), ate both, two plates clean after one seating. However, I asked for another round of carbonara. Why? I don't know. It just tastes so great. What's not to like? Bacon. Mushroom. Pasta. Cheese.

The next year during my birthday, she asked if I wanted carbonara for my birthday. Of course, I said, "You don't have to do that, 'La. Pa's cooking Pancit already."

"But it's your favorite!" she insisted.

Who am I to contest on that eagerness? I agreed, and on my birthday, she cooked me a pan full of carbonara. All for myself. I finished it for two days (just before it spoiled... goodness, my mother didn't even get some because of the mushroom. She isn't a fan of any veggie. And that's for another story again.)

This year, she didn't cook both. Instead, she cooked another of my favorite, afritada. My aunt cooked the spaghetti instead. It's becoming a trend to cook less on Noche Buena and just have a feast on Media Noche. Weird. It seems like my family celebrates the New Year more than Christmas. It wasn't an issue, actually. My only issue was that, why cook spaghetti on two occasions that are just seven days away from each other?

--

My grandmother once taught me how to cook her version of spaghetti. I have vague recollections of her recipe, but I know her special ingredient—Nestle Cream. (Don't tell her I said it.)

Now, I want my spaghetti sweet, not sour. Maybe that's why I liked Jollibee's spaghetti as well. Although it doesn't compare on my grandmother's special.

I remember what I did, though. I chopped the hotdogs—always diagonal, so that everybody gets a large piece. The onions, just fine. She set up her station beside their house and started the charcoal fire. She always cooks that way, just because it's cheap and well, we plan to cook grilled bangus after.

She boiled water first for the pasta while I was chopping the ingredients. I was slow at chopping at that age because I was still familiarizing how to handle the knife. And I had the initiative to learn how to cook. And where would I learn from? Of course, to the master of the kitchen herself, my grandma.

The odd thing was this—when we cook spaghetti, we always separate the pasta and sauce because... (I'm kinda shy about it. I want my pasta to drown in marinara.) My grandma's style was different. Once the sauce was cooked, we put the pasta on the sauce and slowly turn it to cover it all.

Being a newbie, I kept on folding from the center, causing the pasta to cut into smaller pieces than before. My grandma corrected me and showed me the right way. "You know, you're just like your mother."

I just stared at her.

"You both don't know how to handle your pasta. You turn the spoon from the edge of the pan and follow its edges and flip."

--

I learned how to officially cook by the age of twelve. By that age, my mother left my sister and I in charge for the Christmas dinner. My sister cooks one of the best spaghettis ever, a different approach to my grandma's.

Now, I wasn't much help before, except for preparing the ingredients for my sister. When my dad was around for Christmas the whole day, he would insist to put bell peppers and carrots on the spaghetti—trying so hard to convince us to make the food healthier by adding vegetables. My mother was, of course, so against it because she really thinks veggies are eck. My sister sides with my mom because she inherited Mom's hatred for vegetables. And me? Don't ask me, all I ever did was eat.

Sis told me it was weird to put carrots on spaghetti. "It's not Pancit, dad," she retorted.

"I know," he said, "but it's just not healthy. And it's like this every year."

Same thoughts, Dad. Same thoughts.

We weren't really that good of a cook, because we relied on spaghetti sauces and such. But still it tasted good for me, and they told me I have good taste for food. Jollibee had nothing to say.

--

One Christmas, we decided to put corned beef on our spaghetti.

It was one of those last minute preparations, where we just decided what we're gonna prepare during the afternoon. The discussion didn't last long (or that, the discussion never existed at all). We just went on what we prepare every year.

Only that last minute, the ingredients weren't enough for us.

Luckily, there was a corned beef sitting on top of our cabinet for us to eat. So we put it all together and voila! Spaghetti. When I ate it, I never felt any strand of that corned beef. Maybe it fused with the thick sauce. Or maybe I ate it all.

--

Ah, spaghetti. Although we prepare you every year, I still don't get sick of eating you. After all, you're prepared the best. I put my trust on good hands.

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Happy holidays, everyone!