Yesterday afternoon I got back from class, and it was about twenty-five or six to four. I had invited some people over for spaghetti, so I had to get going on putting together a pasta sauce.
I spun the spice rack around to grab what I needed — parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme — then raided the fridge for the sauce base and necessary veggies. A little preparation, and the sauce was on. I just had to let it be.
At that point my friend Simon from Queens walked in. He prides himself on his knowledge of nature and the outdoors, and so he inspected my spice repertoire. “Oh, thyme,” Simon said, dangling a conversation. “You know, there are about 350 species of thyme. Which is this?”
“Does anybody really know what thyme it is?” I asked. “Does anybody really care about thyme?”
“It’s just that I’ve been searching so long to find an answer,” he responded.
“Well, you’re the only living boy in New York who would even care,” I said. “But if you’re that curious, here, just take a baggie of it. As it is, I’ve got too much thyme on my hands anyway.”
That seemed to appease Simon, and then he finally shut up. But as the sauce simmered, it began to smell very appetizing, and he kept glancing over at me as the mixture bubbled. I knew he wanted to try it, so I took care of the issue once and for all so I could have my peace of mind.
“Just cool the engines, Simon. I think it’s going to be a long, long time.”
“Hey, take it easy,” he said, and he dipped a spoon into the pot to sample a bit of the tomato sauce.
I sighed, and reached into the fridge for the spiked egg nog. Whatever gets you through the night.
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