We’re at the market, and we’ve spent the day in Coyoacán, and we’re here to pick up more bottled water before we go back to our Airbnb. The plan is to rest a little then go out for dinner, but I think I’m about to thwart those plans because we’re at the market and we’re in the spaghetti aisle and I’m looking at spaghetti sauces in jars.
Specifically, I’m looking at Prego.
You’re standing next to me laughing because, hi, we’re in Mexico City, and I’m saying I want cold spaghetti. I don’t even know how this craving came about, but I’m craving it, and there it is — Prego! The stuff my mum used to make when I was a kid! Except she’d make it with mushrooms and onions and beef, but I’m planning on just cooking a bunch of spaghetti and dumping the Prego onto it straight out of the jar.
You laugh, say, I’m gonna go see if they have frozen chicken tenders if we’re doing this. Pick a jar, any jar!
I do pick a jar. I pick the one that claims to be a meat sauce, though I don’t want to know how that works. I also pick a box of spaghetti. We get our bottled water, some bread, some toilet paper (our Airbnb has run out). We grab a lot of random chocolate at the register. We go back to our Airbnb, and I boil bottled water, cook my spaghetti, drain it, add Prego straight out of the jar, no mushrooms, no onions, no beef, except whatever is supposedly in my “meat sauce.” We eat some for dinner with your chicken tenders, and I’ll eat the rest over the next day-and-a-half, cold, grudgingly sharing when you offer me a kiss for each forkful of cold spaghetti I give up.