The colors of the Nebraska state flag are blue, gray, and yellow. But the true colors of Nebraska are scarlet and cream—the hues worn by the University of Nebraska-Lincoln’s athletic teams. The Cornhusker State bleeds scarlet and cream. They’re sewn into the soul of every man, woman, and child born there. Most of the time they just fade into the tapestry of my days, since Nebraska is where I spent 20 years of my life. But during a recent visit, I came face to face with all-you-can-eat, scarlet-and-cream existential dread—served lukewarm.
My parents recently celebrated 50 years of marriage. They worked, sacrificed, bent, and—though I never saw it—struggled to share those decades together. Their anniversary is a wondrous achievement of love, yes, but also in consistency of character. As a family, we toasted to their time shared. Meanwhile, I sat distracted by a plate of noodles and red clam sauce.
Spaghetti Works is a legendary restaurant among my family. It’s located in Omaha's Old Market neighborhood, a formerly-bohemian-and-now-a-bit-bougie part of the city, one with dappled brick buildings and brick streets. The restaurant was a special treat growing up. For significant occasions, like birthdays or anniversaries, the Spences often ended up there.
Unsurprisingly, dinner at Spaghetti Works was the main event of Mom and Dad's anniversary weekend, during which my brother and sister-in-law, nieces and nephews, and I all managed to put life on hold and share time together. I was excited to be with family, and to visit the location of so many great meals from my past. After a brief and perfunctory salad starter, my first of what I assumed would be many all-you-can-eat spaghetti courses arrived. I was in Nebraska, dammit, and I was gonna carb-load like the Nebraskans do.
The table was full of revelry, and the restaurant was loud with joyful noise. I swept up my first bite, chewed, and sat in shocked silence. It didn't taste bad. But it also didn't taste like a goddamn thing. I twirled each befuddling noodle in the scarlet sauce and quickly shoveled it all into my searching mouth, hoping a generous application of salt would right any wrongs. It didn't.
I picked the wrong dish, right? This is fine. Happens to the best of us. I ordered my next course, the Hot and Naked. Now this seemed like the right move. The scandalous name would no doubt elicit some giggles from my nephews, cementing my status as the "cool uncle." Culinarily, it was also easy enough to execute a perfectly serviceable dish, given the ingredients at hand—garlic, oil, herbs, pepper flakes, pasta. I dug into the oily, cream-colored spaghetti only, once again, to taste nothing. It was unremarkable in the most unforgettable way. What the fuck was this shit??
Rewind to September 23, 2002. I was leaving home, probably for good. After finishing my education at Northern Illinois University, I had spent the summer of 2001 in stasis. The reality that I was entering a workforce with a theater degree had landed. The dress rehearsal of life was over, and I was freaking out.
While others made plans to move to Chicago, I drank 30-pack after 30-pack of Red Dog and lived on a diet that consisted mainly of Chicago-style hot dogs and two-for-one gyros. Finally, my lease was up, and, out of money and options, I moved back to Nebraska. After a couple of weeks of shock, depression, and 9/11, I got some jobs, decided to pay down my debt, and set a date to leave again.
If my life is a compact disc, dulled by use and full of thousands of miniscule scratches, meals mark the tracks of my memories. They help me skip to the important places in my mind. Perhaps there's a scratch that’s too deep for that night, because I can’t recall what we ate. All I remember were the helpless faces.
There were two young nieces in tears, not understanding why family would choose to go so far away. My father stood in the threshold of my brother’s living room door, subconsciously blocking my eventual exit and mashing one of the knuckles of his right fist into his eye. There was my mother, her gaze glassy, who would display more triumphs of resolute will in the 15 years to follow. There was the consoling hug of an older brother, who’d been protecting me for his whole life. Finally, there was my grandmother: skeptical, yet respectful of my choice to go.
No one has wished me ill for leaving home, and I certainly don't regret it. But it's not easy. It’s a bittersweet feeling, losing the thread of the person you once were. Change isn't necessarily something that’s considered a positive in rural areas. Where I’m from, the highest compliment you can pay someone is to say they are dependable. Progress can seem ridiculous when pretty much everything appears just fine the way it is. Consistency of character. If it ain’t broke, well, you know. As a result, change doesn’t come naturally to me. I come from a place that cherishes the great old days that people are currently desperately lying and cheating and pretending to make great, again.
Back at Spaghetti Works, I sat in solitary silence, staring at those lifeless noodles. My mom snapped pictures on her phone as one of my nephews wore a hat made of balloons and a face covered with red pasta sauce. His twin brother, seated to my right, desperately repeated a joke he hoped someone, anyone would acknowledge. My two younger nieces talked quietly with a shared glint in their eyes, obviously gossiping about a scandalous morsel they preferred no one else hear. My oldest niece laughed as she told my brother of her latest embarrassment. He leaned far back in his chair and chuckled. For a moment he relaxed, basking in the choices he had made to arrive at this place. My father sat at the head of the table, laser-focused on the stained white menu, deciding which pasta to order next.
Looking back on that busy night, I don't begrudge people for enjoying their all-you-can-eat pasta. What distressed me was failing to enjoy my all-you-can-eat pasta. If I can’t taste what they taste, what other traits do they possess that are beyond my comprehension? The people at that table were a product of shared time. We were—and are—of the same skin and blood. And now I must wrestle with the fact that, because of the choices I've made, there are parts of them I will never understand.
I've changed. What I was, or what I might have been, has slowly eroded away: topsoil without trees.
