Burnt Spaghetti Novels & Stories

I rolled my eyes and went over to the food, stirring it. I sighed. I never thought that one day I would be considering letting Zephyr bang me. I lifted some spaghetti out of the pot, absentmindedly. I was still lost in my reverie, I didn't realize what I was doing until I took a bite out of steaming hot spaghetti. “Oh dear goddess!” the spine dropped into the pot. I reered away, a hand clasped to my mouth. The pain was excruciating especially in the gums my Fangs were supposed to be.

I held her gaze and could see she desperately wanted me to taste it, and I had no option but to heed her plea. With a frown, I took the spoon from her and took a scoop of the spaghetti. I hesitated for a moment before putting the spoon of spaghetti into my mouth. With disgust, I began chewing it but was surprised it didn't taste like spaghetti. Somewhat it tasted like jambalaya, my favorite food.

It's my special spaghetti recipe. I force a smile at him, bile rising in my throat as I could already imagine the awful taste of the spaghetti. Anytime I was sick or in a bad mood when we were younger, Lucien would always cook me this spaghetti. It was so special to him because it's the only thing he thought he can cook. The spaghetti usually taste like sandpaper, but I never told him. I still take it and surprisingly it's use to make me feel better, only that I will almost purge out my intestine.

"There, dinner." I say as I place a bowl of burnt pasta in front of Niklaus. "You should be a chef..." "I thought I wasn't allowed to work." I answer cooly as I walk to my seat. "I was under the impression that spaghetti is prepared by boiling. How did you manage to burn it? That shows talent that shouldn't be ignored." "Oh, haha..." Without smelling or waiting for the steam to fade, Niklaus pokes his fork into the charred mess, spins the charred white strings covered in red sauce on his fork, and eats it.

“After about the fifth time, I learned to enjoy burnt spaghetti. Can’t even eat the regular kind anymore.” “I know you’re lying because I’ve only burnt the spaghetti once.” “I’ve missed this, you know?” Rowan continues to speak in between bites. “What do you mean?” My appetite had all but vanished the moment I sat down across from Rowan, but I found myself staring at the spaghetti with a newfound interest to avoid from looking into Rowan’s eyes.

He drained it and dumped it into the sauce. Sebastian stirred. Then stopped. His face fell. "What?" Damian asked. "I burned the pasta." "It looks fine." "No, the bottom. It's stuck to the pot." Sebastian tried to scrape it up. The spaghetti came away in clumps, black on the edges, smoking slightly. "Damn it." Damian looked at the pot. At the burned pasta. At Sebastian's defeated expression. He started laughing. Not a small laugh. A real one. The kind that doubled him over, that made his stomach hurt, that brought tears to his eyes. He laughed until he couldn't breathe, until he had to brace himself on the counter.

Bitterness surged through him, rendering him momentarily speechless. "You're right..." he sighed quietly as he stared off into space. "Willow… she was always so thoughtful." Those small, overlooked moments now echoed in his mind like fading memories, weighing heavier on his heart. He longed for coffee left on his desk during late nights and the quiet care I offered after every meeting. After a moment, Tucker murmured, "Willow always warned me not to stay up too late… and she made sure there was hot soup waiting when I was done. Damn it…"

"Dante. The Belgian file." "Give me twenty minutes," Dante said. They worked. Between the working there were other things. There was a late dinner on the second night — Marta cooking something with bacalhau and potatoes that was extraordinary and entirely homey, the three of them sitting at the long table with wine and the relaxed post-intensity quality of people who have been in high focus for hours and are allowing themselves a brief, earned suspension of it.