On a frigid, frosty winter day in February, I am on my way to pick up my brother from college (it has been several weeks since he was home). My dad boils the noodles as he chops up spinach, mushrooms, and broccoli. Pasta Fresca—the sweet smell makes me salivate.

Arriving outside Alec’s dorm, I try to hurry him. I impatiently listen to music. Driving home in the toasty car, we sing songs and speed home, anxiously awaiting our favorite home cooked meal.

Pulling up the slippery driveway...the aroma of balsamic vinegar, garlic and sweet wine makes my stomach stiffen. Bursting into the house, starving, my brother follows.  

Dinner is almost ready and I can’t wait to get the first plate of food. I sprinkle the garlic around the pan to give it an outstanding taste (and bad breath). Adding the noodles and oil, I hear the pan sizzle.

“How much longer, Dad?” I ask.

He yells, “If you want your food quicker, come over and help.”

As my food is spooned on the GIANT plate, I become sad, noticing my dad and brother grabbing a fork, sneaking bites off my plate.

“What are you doing?” I scream. I don’t mind sharing, but not when it’s my dad’s famous Pasta Fresca meal. “Please get your own plate!”