When I was but a wee little lass, my parents put me in a church-based preschool daycare. I remember a few things from it—like at the age of 3-4 I still didn't know right from left because my parents had never taught me, and the embarrassment of being the only one staring gormlessly while everyone else raised the correct hand on command scrimshawed right-left distinction into my skull forever—but what stood out in my memory this morning was a particularly traumatizing lunch that was served to us poor little tots.
It wasn't too weird for most people, I guess. Chili on spaghetti. Very Cleveland feel for a small city in the Deep South. The problem was the chili was ground beef in a gently-seasoned Suspension or Broth that had no body to it. The result was a bland, distasteful combination of wet noodles and chewy beef slop. I think there were formerly-frozen green beans and carrots on the side, not that 3-year-old dolphinsarejerks was touching those anyway.
This meal was so wretched and inedible that for a few years it ruined two of my favorite foods. I wouldn't touch either again until middle school, and I really only liked them when I made them myself after that point. Even now I need my chili to have structure and body and elements and I need my spaghetti well-covered with a robust sauce that doesn't just slide off the noodle. The thought of eating just buttered noodles, an American classic autism food, makes me recoil in horror.
I told this to my girlfriend today as we got ready for work. And she said to me: "You did it. You found the upsetti spaghetti."
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