note: This is a re-post of a column by our former publisher Jerry Robinson who passed away in 2014.

by Jerry Robinson

Sometimes my wife, who is only the world’s greatest cook, gets full up to here with stuffing the stomachs of the six males in her life and announces over the public address system we have in our house: “Now hear this, now hear this!, if anybody in this house expects to eat tonight you’ll have to depend on old Charley and his corduroy spaghetti.”

Then she disappears into the bathroom, dabs extract of vanilla behind her ears, emerges floating in the ethereal splendor, flounces to the door, hops into her sports car and roars away into the night.

So we are left to our own devices. 
This is not too disturbing, however, because it gives me a chance to make my famous spaghetti. 

When I announce this I am usually greeted with remarks from the clan such as, “wonderful, maybe you can sell your formula to Dupont as a new synthetic for tires.” Or, “Don’t let Wrigley know or you will have a lawsuit on your hands.”

Very clever. They can eat it or go hungry. Actually, the only real problem is that it never comes out twice the same way. And my creative spirit has kept me from using prepared mixes. Or maybe it’s my pride.
The other day, though, I was sitting in the Epicure restaurant when in rolled Al Alfieri. Al is the former White Center music man who now, it turns out, is manufacturing a commercial spaghetti sauce called Mama Angelina’s. 

He is still a music man and soon had me convinced that his new  product is the greatest boon to mankind since the can-opener. And to back it up he gave me a jar of the stuff. It comes in liquid form and has the ingredients including the tomato paste.

So the other night, when the First Mate announced from the bridge that we would fending for ourselves in the galley, we went to work.
Only this time she crossed us up. She didn’t go out. So there I was, busily cutting up the romaine for the salad while Mama Angelina, right of the jar, simmered slowly on the front burner when she came into the kitchen. I hadn’t told her of Alfieri’s gift so I had to act fast. Strolling casually over to the stove, I proceeded to shake various spices into the mix, humming gaily and every so often taking a ladle for the taste.
Then, with the proper expression on my face I would shake a little more oregano or something into it. All this she watched casually, and I could see she was convinced it was my own concoction because her eyebrows would raise slightly when I muttered audibly (with an Italian accent) that was not quite right yet.

It turned out great. Oh, maybe it had a little too much oregano in it but I can’t blame Mama Angelina for that. To this day my wife thinks I created it and now wants me to manufacture it commercially. “We’ll make it up in big quantities on weekends and give it a good old Italian name. Maybe something like a prepared mix they have out now called Mama Angelina’s”, she said wryly.