Unbroken

"Broken people don't create memories."

I left the words unsaid. Alexis has never looked depression in the face, so she wouldn't know how to stare it down, recognize it for what it is, and walk away knowing that it's not the sort of thing that can be easily fixed. It's not your fault. It just is.

"But, mom! What kind of things did you do for your mom for Mothers Day?" Alexis pressed on as she grinned from ear-to-ear. She had single-handedly taken on the task of delivering breakfast in bed to me and was watching intently as I ate my cereal. She was so very proud of herself and very much so looking forward to a day where she would dictate my every move in the interest of making it a great day.

I never really did that for my mom. What do you do for someone who is so lost in her head that she  can't join life? There aren't words that fix it. No actions make a difference. It's not the sort of thing you explain to a 7-year old, though. You either know it because you're living it, or you're completely oblivious. It's good that Alexis is oblivious.

"Hey. Will you take a picture with me today?" I asked, not so subtly throwing a SQUIRREL! into the conversation.

"Moooooooom," Alexis started to complain. "You have a million pictures of me," she continued.

"But I don't have very many of both of us," I retorted.

That satisfied her and then some.

Broken people don't create memories.

I think that's why she so very rarely appeared in photographs. There is a family portrait from when I was a month old or so, but that's it. She disappeared. Years and years and years went by and she never appeared in a single photo. No photos with her kids. No photos alone. No photos.

It's like she never existed.

I get the thing where we all think we look awful in photos. We need to lose a few pounds, it's a bad hair day, that shirt looks awful ... we all have our excuses.

But, man, exist. Just exist. Only the broken people should be forgetting to create memories.

Pasta Pomodoro

I'm not sure if "fancy spaghetti" is a thing at everyone's house, but it's a thing at my house. It's basically a rip-off of Olive Garden's Pasta Pomodoro, except that I really have no idea what is in Olive Garden's Pasta Pomodoro other than garlic. As in, ALL OF THE GARLIC. I still really like it, but when I decided we needed to try eating it at home for less than half the cost (for the ENTIRE FAMILY, thank you very much), I dialed down the garlic a few notches.

It's a pretty basic staple around here. It varies from month-to-month because if fresh tomatoes are available, I'm using them. If they aren't, canned it is. Feel free to judge me for using canned tomatoes. I'm already judging me for it and judging parties are more fun when there are a lot of people there.

Anyway, Pasta Pomodoro isn't really anything fancy, but some people seem to think it's fancy. Go with it when it happens.

Pasta Pomodoro

(serves 4)

1 box (1 pound) angel hair spaghetti, cooked according to box directions
1/4 cup olive oil
1 large yellow onion
3 cloves minced garlic
1 tablespoon dried basil (2 tablespoons chopped if using fresh)
2 cans diced tomatoes (8-10 Roma tomatoes if using fresh) (Fresh is totally worth the effort.)
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup white wine
Crushed red pepper flakes
Black pepper
Parmesan cheese

1. Cook the angel hair according to the directions on the box.

2. In a large skillet, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the chopped onions and garlic. Sauté until clear.

3. Add the basil, tomatoes, balsamic vinegar, and white wine. Simmer over medium heat until you're happy with the tomatoes. I like them a little soft, so I let them go for about 10 minutes.

4. Add as much or as little crushed red pepper flakes and black pepper as you like.

5. Drain the cooked angel hair and throw it in the skillet with the sauce. Stir things up.

6. Serve with parmesan cheese on top.

Just a Girl and Her Pet Apatosaurus