I am a student at New York City College of Technology, and majoring in Hospitality management. As a Chinese immigrant, I am not only able to speak both Chinese and English, but also easily adapt to different cultures from all over the world. I believe that I am a well-mannered and organized young woman and I am always ready to face challenges. I am sure that I am ready to be an adventurer in my study of hospitality management.
THE BOILED PASTA
I order Spaghetti Bolognese in almost every restaurant that I visit for the first time visit, as long as they have it on their menu. I love spaghetti, especially “Boiled Pasta,” what my father made for me when I was little. Speaking of my Dad; he is not a tall man standing at about 5 feets 4 inches. He is not a strong man. In fact, he is fat, and his weight makes him look even shorter. He is not a good father who can always be with his child — me. In fact, I barely see him, only once or twice a year. When he used to come home with his chin covered with stubble, he liked to tickle my face. I always said stop to inform him that I am now an adult who doesn’t like to play this childish game, but I do enjoy these memorable moments with him. All in all, his flaws never stop me from loving him. My mother told me that he couldn’t come home as often as other fathers do because he needs to work outside to earn money for us. I do believe this, so I don’t call him or bother him too much though I miss him a lot.
There was one night he finished his business trip and came home around midnight. I woke up smelling food coming from the kitchen; I had no idea what type of meal it was, but I did know it was something delicious. I went out of my bedroom and saw that my dad was cooking with spaghetti. The way my father deals with spaghetti is different from any other “chefs.” He always uses the simplest way or the most efficient way to cook food because he barely cooks and always wants to eat immediately. When he noticed me, he picked me up with his arms and gave me a big smile: “Do you want some?” I heavily nodded my head “YES.” I was swinging on the chair, playing with my fingers and waiting for my food to come; I expected it to be very “fancy,” because in my opinion, fancy looking food will smell good and taste good. Looking back, now I want all things as simple as they can! When my father put my bowl on the table, I looked at it and was confused: Is this the way my dad cooked spaghetti? There was not any fancy decoration put on the spaghetti, he just cooked it with boiling water, and he put some cauliflower in it. He knows I love cauliflower. I named his spaghetti “Boiled Pasta.”
I hold my fork with my right hand, or in my mother’s words, “put your fork into the noodle and let it dance.” After the fork turned back from two circles, the spaghetti twirled on my fork. I put it into my mouth, and it did not taste as good as I thought. It’s just light soup with spaghetti, and I didn’t really like it. However, when I saw my father who was sitting next to me, eating his “boiled pasta”, and his stubble on his chin moving like it’s dancing, I fell in love with my spaghetti. I wanted to spend more time with my dad though we didn’t talk much while we ate. I didn’t know how to communicate with him because I didn’t have many chances to stay with him alone, I wanted to be affectionate like I always was with my mother, but I didn’t know how; All I did was sit there and try my best to eat my spaghetti as slow as I can to let this moment last longer. I finished my food eventually. My dad asked me to go to sleep and he started packing our bowls up. I stood up; I put my chair back; I took a tissue to clean my mouth; I took my own bowl and put it in the sink; I went to the kitchen to wash my hands; I took another tissue to dry my hands; I looked around to see if I left something. Finally, I had nothing left to do but to go back to my room. I walked back to my room, but before I closed my door, my dad’s voice came out from the kitchen:
“I can cook it for you every time I come home if you like it.”
“Yes. Good night, daddy.” Then I went to my bed, put my blanket on and fell asleep.
Since then, I love spaghetti. I found out the restaurants outside don’t have “Boiled Pasta”, but they have spaghetti with meat sauce, which is delicious too. I started ordering Spaghetti Bolognese every time I visit a new restaurant if they have it on their menu. In my mind, if they can make Spaghetti Bolognese good, every other item will be good too. Many of my friends think I am weird because I can order it again and again in the same restaurant without getting tired of it, and not want to try other new things at all. I said I just love Spaghetti, but what I didn’t tell them is I will throw myself back to that night with my dad every time I have Spaghetti: My father and I are sitting together, holding our bowls with left hands, not much talking but quiet. I am not a quiet person, I always feel lonely when the environment is quiet, but I love the silent moment with my dad, I know I am loved.
My father is working in China and I am studying in the United States, I miss him a lot. I know how to cook “Boiled Pasta” by myself now, it tastes almost the same as my father made me — light, but the feeling is different. I still think that the decoration of the food is important because it can attract guests’ attention, but I also realized it’s not always about the taste of food, but the person who is having food with you is someone you love and care for. The taste and presentation of food aren’t all that matters. It’s the person you sit with is the one you want. The spaghetti my father made is definitely not good as what “Michelin chefs” make, but for me, it’s just so amazing that nothing compares. I would like to have my “Boiled Pasta” every single day because that’s what my father made for me.
