I tried serving my kind of spaghetti on several occasions and on every one of those times, my father-in-law, who is a true cook extraordinaire and whose word is law in the kitchen, glared at my pots of sauce. Each time the itch got the better of him, out came the hotdogs and free flowing ketchup from the fridge and into my sauce. Twice I insisted on MY sauce. He didn’t say anything but the ever so slightly perceptible depression at the sides of his mouth and the way he kept his bottle of ketchup beside him like a six shooter made me feel like my spaghetti had suddenly grown an aquiline nose, brown hair, a foreign accent and an unpatriotic air.
If there is such a thing as American pizza, then there is nothing wrong with having Filipino spaghetti but there is nothing wrong with me either. My spaghetti is just the way I like it. It’s just the way Pugad Baboy’s Dagul likes it. It’s just the way a weird Filipina lost in her own country likes it. I suspect though that to avoid further tension in the kitchen and the inconvenience of preparing two platters of differently flavored spaghetti, I shall have to go to that restaurant that smacks of stiff aquiline noses where the pasta I like will cost me a day’s wages. Huhuhu.