The Rigatoni Question

August twenty-fourth. There is a letter on my kitchen counter. It's been there for a little while now, Carol's, the fourth one, the one with the thing about my mother inside it that I didn't ask for and keep not knowing what to do with. I've been giving it space the way you give space to something that deserves a careful answer. Which is to say I've been doing other things.

Saturday was the grocery run. Simone texted around noon asking if I needed anything from her end of the neighborhood and somehow that turned into us both going, which it does sometimes, and which I've stopped pretending to be surprised by. The store was freezing the way it always is in summer, I don't know why they run the AC like they're storing meat, and we got through produce and canned things and the weird aisle with the paper goods just fine. Then we hit pasta and Simone picked up two boxes and stopped moving entirely. Rigatoni versus penne. She had opinions. I had opinions. The opinions did not match. I think we stood there for an embarrassingly long time for two adults making a very low-stakes decision.

We got the rigatoni. I want the record to show that I maintain penne was correct and I was simply outvoted by a person with more conviction than me.

the cart that witnessed everything

Outside the store she was still making her case, which I appreciated in the way I appreciate someone who cares about small things enough to argue for them. It was hot once we were back in the sun. August doing what August does.

I'm going to write back to Carol. Not today, probably. But soon. I keep picking the letter up and setting it down and going to the grocery store instead.

post-pasta-debate debrief

The collapsed bowl is still on the windowsill. Gerald has two new leaves. The rigatoni is in the cabinet and I think it was fine, actually, though I won't be telling Simone that.