Nineteen-seventy-one was the Year of Spaghetti

Thinking about spaghetti that boils eternally but is never done is a sad, sad thing.

I am cooking spaghetti and I am reminded of a short story written by Haruki Murakami called The Year Of Spaghetti. He has had several spaghettis published in the New Yorker. I have enjoyed them all.