spaghetti

I have at least one brother. My mother had three boys but it's funny: who you deem Family isn't always automatic.

I never laid eyes on him till I was way into my second decade of life. He'd married my big sister when she was 19. Or maybe she was 20. Maybe 21, I don't remember. More than 30-something years ago. My favorite sister got lucky. Struck gold, you ask me. The gods smiled on her for once in her life. Henry T is one in a million and that ratio may be far too liberal.

I love Henry. I tell him that every time I see him or talk to him. Every time. I'm not the only one of my clan who does. One of my great wishes in life is to spend as much time around him as I can. He's got a lot to offer, stuff that will die with him, I'm afraid. He's the greatest human being I've ever met who doesn't share my last name... by far. I could talk about him for days. For this post, I'll say: dude's a tremendous cook.

Hold that thought.
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I like spaghetti. And...

The Nephew® and I talk to all the time, a miniature Henry T in many ways. Nephew, in one of our marathon convos, once said Uncle Henry has a serious spaghetti recipe. Oh really? Who knew. *shrug*

Henry's cooking skill is legendary among the fam. He's never boasted about it, but put him in a kitchen and the result--no matter the meal--is never less than closed mouths, lack of talk, and "hmmmmm's" all around. Dude can cook, I already knew.

Hold that thought.
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So I asked him for his spaghetti meat sauce recipe, almost knowing what he'd say. Dude is ultra-protective of the recipes he's going to die with. Just chop us this and add a little that. Whatever, dude.

But I did what little he said... w/ my own touches... and

Oh.

My.

Goodness.

My first time out, I'd made spaghetti that was fit to eat.

Cooking. Maybe it's in my blood.