Pasta Aglio e Olio & The Cowgirls, By Joe Ortiz

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Pasta Aglio e Olio & The Cowgirls

By Joe Ortiz

Previous Episode: The Doctor asked me how many aspirin I had eaten, and when he and Mom kept saying “Come on, Joey, how many?” I said, “Come on . . . Seven.”

My mother howled the moment she realized I wasn’t calling for the dice to “roll my number” as Dad had taught me but confessing to have eaten seven aspirin. Dr. Boccardi quickly calmed her down and told her to feed me pasta with garlic and olive oil.

For once the prescription wasn’t for aspirin.

“The garlic will cut the acidity of the medicine and the pasta will soothe the aggravation to his stomach. Tomorrow, a little white rice throughout the day and some pastina for dinner and, by the weekend, he’ll be eating gravy again.”

When Dad suggested giving me Brioschi, a foul, milky liquid designed to coat your stomach, Mom said: “Sure, Herman. You’d fight medicine with medicine.”

To get out of the way of Mom’s wrath, Dad walked Dr. Boccardi down to the bus stop. But he had promised her earlier he’d talk to the doctor about paying my outstanding bill. So, when Dad got back, Mom jumped all over him: “What’d Boccardi say, Herman?”

“He says we should move ta Arizona fa Joey’s bronchitis,” Dad said.

“I know all about Arizona, Herman. The hot weather would be better for Joseph’s bronchitis. What’d Boccardi say about the doctor bill?”

“He said we can pay when we got it. He’s gonna give us another few weeks.”

“He’s just being nice,” Mom yelled. “What if Joey keeps getting sick? If Boccardi thinks we can’t pay, he might not come so quick when we need him.”

“Nonnie, what kinda doctor would neglect a sick kid because his parents got no money to pay the bill? I guarantee ya . . .”

“HERMAN! Your guarantees are like the Bums winning the Pennant. It never happens.”

But Dad had his way of holding out. About money, and about dinner, too. He wouldn’t go for spaghetti aglio e olio, so Mom cut him a slice of eggplant now that it had finally cooled. As Dad sat down to eat, he went into his “singing-song” routine: “Ya coulda had eggplant if you didn’t decide ta eat aspirin fa dinner, Joey.”

“Leave him alone,” Ma said.

I was disappointed about missing out on the eggplant, but Mom said she’d eat aglio e olio with me. Mom put a pot of water on to boil and started to smash four cloves of garlic with the side of a knife, until she remembered what the doctor said about not using too much. So, she put two cloves back and minced two real fine.

She slid some spaghetti out of the box and gripped it in her thumb and fingers to show me how to measure. “That much is for two,” she said. But I was too sick to care. She poured a small handful of salt into the pot of boiling water. “The magic ingredient for aglio e olio is water, Joey,” she said. “Like for all good pasta, water helps ta bind the oil and macaroni into a sauce. “Better ya should learn to cook than learn to gamble. It’s a lot safer.” Dad just twisted up his face again, snarled toward the kitchen, and went on eating. “You fry the garlic in a couple of tablespoons of olive oil for a few seconds,” Mom said. “But don’t let it burn or it’ll get bitter. When the pasta’s very al dente, that’s still a little firm to the bite, you put it in the pan with the oil and garlic. Add some of the pasta water and cook it down. Turn it a lot—girra molto—my mother used to tell me. That makes it nice and creamy. When the water cooks off and the pasta’s done, add a little handful of chopped parsley— turn off the heat and it’s ready. All it needs is some grated Parmesan at the table.”

Although the first bite of the pasta started to turn my stomach, it quickly began to go down just fine. I started feeling better. The two or three spoonfuls I couldn’t finish, Mom ate. Then she made Dad take me to bed.

On the way into the bedroom, I reminded Dad about sitting with me until I nodded off. I was afraid of the dark so, to fall asleep, I needed to hold onto one of my parents’ arms. Dad brought me in, laid me down and covered me, “I’m getting tired of sitting here while ya fall asleep, Joey,” he said. “Someday I’m going to make a fake arm for you to hold onto.”

“No, Daddy, No.”

“I’m only foolin’,” he said with a sneer. He thought boys shouldn’t cry, and any hint of that from me would drive him raging crazy. But I was too sick to need an arm that night. Too sick to be kidded; too wasted even to cry.

After Dad tucked me in and left, I still needed the cowgirls, though. The fairy cowgirls that guarded my bed were my protective angels. Modeled after Dale Evans, they looked more like Rita Hayworth and Lana Turner: Robust, healthy women who rode horses through the room at night while my parents and Laura sat up listening to the radio. It must have been the music echoing in from the living room that inspired my fantasies.

The cowgirls twirled their lassos, sang songs, and built campfires that glowed in the dark. Because these beautiful women were around, I felt safe until I fell asleep. They softened my bruises and calmed my stomach.

And, sure, I guess they even sheltered me from the brutal sounds of Mom and Dad when they came into our bedroom and struggled around with one another while they thought I was fast asleep.

The cowgirls wore chaps and holsters and guns. Their hats bobbed up and down around their necks as they rode their stallions across the bedroom walls. The cowgirls, with their long, flowing hair and romantic eyes, were more real to me that Amos ‘n Andy, the Honeymooners, and the Brooklyn Dodgers. They were as delicious as pizza and Chinese food, as soothing as spaghetti aglio e olio and pastina. They were as powerful as Superman, Hopalong Cassidy, Jacky Robinson and the Cisco Kid.

Later that night Dad came in and said, “Who you talking to, Joey?”

“The cowgirls,” I said.

“They pretty?”

“Yeah.”

Modeled after Dale Evans, [the fairy cowgirls] looked more like Rita Hayworth and Lana Turner: Robust, healthy women who rode horses through the room at night while my parents and Laura sat up listening to the radio. Spaghetti Aglio e Olio Pasta in Garlic and Olive Oil

Serves Two (Me and Mom because Dad didn’t like it and Laura was always out singing Doo Wop on the block)

Dr. Boccardi always prescribed this whenever my parents discovered that I had been eating aspirin, or when I had any kind of compromised digestion. Which I often did. It’s good for “ageta” if you leave out the pepper flakes and don’t use too much garlic. 3 tablespoons olive oil 3 to 4 cloves garlic, minced 6 ounces spaghetti (just enough that you can hold wrapped between your thumb and fingers real tight) 1 teaspoon red pepper flakes (optional) 2 tablespoons chopped parsley 3 to 4 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese Set a medium sized pot of salted water to boil. In a skillet over medium heat, sauté the minced garlic and cook until just golden. Turn off the heat. When the water comes to a boil, cook the pasta until very al dente. When the pasta is ready, scoop it out with a large fork and add it to the garlic and oil mixture. Then turn up the heat to medium. Add about ½ cup of the pasta water to the pan and cook while stirring constantly until the water has all evaporated and the pasta is cooked to your liking. Add half of the parsley and all of the pepper flakes if you’re using them. Remove to pasta bowls and sprinkle with the rest of the parsley and a little of the grated Parmesan cheese. And eat! n