Alfredo’s Inferno

Alfredo’s Inferno

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

I was asked recently if I was married to which I responded, "No." It was followed up with, "Have you ever been married?" To which I responded, "No." Then, the heavily impregnated and implied question was of course, Why? For this week's column I'd like to answer that question but before I do, allow me to give a short and succinct prologue to the forthcoming answer: I'm not gay.
Okay, now that that's out of the way, to the reason – or rather, to one of the reasons, for there are many. The complexity of why I am not, nor have I ever been, married has many facets to it. Some psychological, some meta-physical, some practical. But the one that leaps to mind, and I think is as legitimate as any of the others is, Chicken Fettuccini Alfredo. I love Chicken Fettuccini Alfredo, with all those little ridged tubes, angle cut at the top and bottom, mixed with hot grilled strips of chicken and covered in that creamy gravy...Ahhh, magnific! (Sorry, I'm from Oklahoma. Anything thick and creamy poured over anything on a plate is basically gravy).
Now I know you must be saying to yourself, What's he talking about? That's not Fettuccini, that's Penne pasta. I know, I know, got the taxonomy wrong, but give me a break. It took me years of re-orientation to not call anything made out of pasta, Macaroni. But I know the difference. I got it straight from a real Italian: Dark hair, talks with his hands, New Jersey accent, the whole bit. He knows his stuff. Incidently, you might also be wondering what Chicken Fettuci – pardon me, Penne Alfredo, has to do with marriage.
Well, if you will, walk with me a while and it will all become clear.
It was at a writers' group I attend once a week. We were all there, the seven of us, at the resturant where we meet, and one of the women reached over with her fork and stabbed one of the other writer's chicken pasta and casually stuck it in her mouth. I guess because they were dating, he didn't flinch, he just kept right on talking. However, for some reason, I was irritated for him. Now I have no reasonable excuse for why it bothered me, other than a weird, acute, pseudo-atavistic, catharsis that took hold of me just at the moment. After all, it's his food, not mine. None of my business, right?
But it still bothered me.
In the Billy Wilder film, Some Like It Hot, Marilyn Monroe told Tony Curtis that when it comes to men, she somehow always ends up with the fuzzy end of the lollipop. That's not the case with me...I mean with regard to women (if confused, refer to prologue). I haven't had a long line of heartbreaking romances. I don't have a whole list of women that I hate and despise because they, "Did me wrong." That's not why I am as of yet, unmarried. No. In part, it's the Chicken Penne Alfredo.
I'll explain.
I guess I've been without female companionship for so long I've completely forgotten that one of the rules of romantic social interaction and exchange is that the woman gets full and unhindered access to the man's food anytime, anywhere. It's as if you told the waiter,
"Yes, she'll have the Coconut Shrimp with a side salad, and we'll have the Chicken Penne Alfredo."
Even if you offer to buy a woman her own Chicken Penne Alfredo along with her Coconut Shrimp, she'll refuse. She doesn't want her own Chicken Penne Alfredo.
She wants yours.
One of the other writers in the group, a guy, had the idea that it all works out fine for both parties. It's quite simple, he said, if viewed from a certain perspective: She gets to eat your food, and you get to...um, well...he has a colorful way of putting things, so I think in consideration of the PG-13 rating of this column, I'll refrain from supplying his particular illustration.
But to make the point, even if my male writer friend is right, a woman eating a guy's food results in a net loss of pasta for the guy and a net gain for her. So, even if you do get to...um, well...it's not like she's lost anything. In fact, she wins doubly. She gets your pasta and still gets her...um, well...never mind. But suffice it to say, the guy always ends up with the, uh...fuzzy end of...the...never mind again.
All in all, I guess letting a woman lift pieces of your Chicken Penne Alfredo – usually the chicken pieces – isn't anything to get bent out of shape about. It's just that it seems to be an infinitesimally mild form of rape, somehow. The violation is slight, ever so much so, but it's there nonetheless. And I know, lurking just beneath the surface of her whole spear, snatch, and masticate process, is some Dante/Hannibal Lector-esque element, but I'm afraid to find out what it is. I'm very careful to never get too close to a woman's psyche. Very dangerous, as most men intuitively know. It could ruin a guy. Besides, I want to be able to...um, well...

Keck