Little Ditties

Fusilli! Pasata! Onions, courgettes, peppers! 

I slap the ingredients down on my counter, bopping along to the nonsensical song in my head.

Olive oil! Garlic! Three whole cloves of garlic!

I crack the cloves off the bulb, watching the flaky casing fall down around my feet, shuffling in their striped socks.

You whack it in a pot and stir it all a lot!

Ha, I even made a rhyme! I fill up the kettle and click it on, throwing pasta into a saucepan and salting it. Dragging a heavy wooden chopping board in front of me, I get to work on the onions. For once I might be wiping tears away for a good reason, I think, smirking at my inner monologue. Always so self deprecating. But not today. Not when there’s pasta to be had and songs to be sung. Oh, kettle’s boiled!

Pasta bubbling away and onions chopped I move on to the rest of the veggies. Ah, so much goodness! I can feel my skin clearing, my energy levels rising, my stomach settling even as I slice the courgettes into discs. This sure makes a change from whatever junk I’d been consuming for the last few weeks. Taking out the recycling this afternoon and being confronted with so many pizza boxes had not been my favourite experience. Peppers now!

Slicin’ up the peppers, slicin’ up the peppers!

My knees bob along with the repetitive song. Can it even be called a song? Probably not. But I always had some kind of ditty in my head, narrating the most mundane of actions. Keeps the mind occupied, I find. Right, let’s get this frying!

Flicking on the front left hob, I splash in a generous amount of oil and wait for it to heat up. I spear a twist of pasta and wave it around to cool it down before taking a nibble off the end. Hmm, definitely taking al dente a little bit too far. I plop it back into the salted ocean. I grab my knife and deftly scrape the minced veggies into the frying pan, enjoying the sharp hisses and sizzles. That has always been my favourite part; it makes me feel like a real chef. Now let’s get saucy, I waggle my eyebrows, catching sight of myself in the reflection of the tiled wall panel and snorting.

I rip open the carton of tomatoes, sloshing it over the still fizzling vegetables. Running my fingertips along the spice rack, I start to pluck out whatever feels right. I’ll admit, it’s pretty much at random, but I’m not a fussy eater.

“A little pinch of parsley, little bit of basil,

A small sprinkle of sugar and a crack of coriander!”

I’m chuffed with my alliteration, especially for off the cuff. I reckon I could do more.

“Don’t be chintzy with the chilli, grab the garlic flakes,

Splash in the salt and, uh, hold the horseradish!”

I cackle; I’m bloody pleased with myself. It’s the little things in life, eh? I collect up the flavourings of choice and start to toss them into the sauce, stirring it about until all the pieces of deliciousness are well coated. The smell of the almost-finished product fills my nose and the room. Oop, nearly forgot the main event! I snatch the pot of pasta from the stovetop and drain it over the sink, swilling it about to get the salty taste off as much as possible.

Let the sauce, see the carbs! I crow, folding the fusilli into the tomatoey goodness until it’s fully integrated. I can’t wait to eat this now; my mouth is watering. I nearly scoop up a forkful right there and then, but don’t want this experience tainted by a burnt tongue. I force myself to leave it on the side, filling up a pint glass with ice cold water and grabbing a fork from the overstuffed drawer. Balancing my bowl, glass and cutlery in my arms, checking the appliances are all off, I hip-bump the door open and sidle into the living room.

I’m greeted by my housemates, sitting silently, but both looking at me with the widest grins I’ve ever seen.

“What? What?!” I giggle, looking from one glowing face to another.

“We heard your spice song from the kitchen.” Mel says, her smile not wavering.

I chuckle “Oh god, I hope you all enjoyed the show. Budge up.” I slot myself onto the end of the worn leather sofa.

“You’ve been down for so long, we haven’t heard you sing,” she continues, her voice becoming thick with emotion, “the flat has been so quiet for weeks. But you’re back!”

I stop with the fork halfway to my mouth, now open in shock.

“You… you noticed that?” I’m stunned; I hadn’t even noticed that.

“Of course!” chimes in Rosa, “your ridiculous little ditties are a staple of our mealtime routine!”

I’m overcome with love for these women. That they would notice such a thing, and know from it that I wasn’t myself, is so caring I almost can’t take it. I put my fork back in my bowl and reach for the hands nearest to me, squeezing them to say what my mouth cannot.

And not just because it is, finally, full of pasta.

[NB: This story was, along with the prompt of the week, inspired by a recent tweet series from @KaylaAncrum which read “I was depressed a while ago & then one day when I felt better I was singing in the kitchen while making dinner. My roommate bursts in like “oh thank goodness” and I was like “what??” and she said “You stop singing when you’re unhappy and our house has been silent for 4 months.” And like... with that single sentence, I learned what it meant to be loved, silently. To be known without knowing it. Sometimes I think about how I was pretty normal that whole time, my depression presents mostly as exhaustion and memory loss, but doesn’t really affect my mood much. So I was having fun and laughing with her, while she anxiously waited and carefully watched. loving me quietly.”]