Spaghetti and Meatballs Poem – By Maanasvi M. Rao

I put the fork upon the plate
And watched the little one contemplate Not taxes nor the stars above
But matters far more grave than love

For there before his watchful eye Three bowls of spaghetti happened by
One red, one white, one dressed in green Yet only one was to be seen

“No,” he said, with royal decree “That is not spaghetti to me.”
“But look,” we said, “it’s made the same.” He looked at us as if we were insane.

The noodles curled, the sauce was thick The difference seemed a childish pick Yet there he stood with furrowed brow
As though defending something profound.

For this one came from grandma’s hand And this one from another land
This one smelled of Saturday rain This one was foreign, odd, profane. And so he pushed the others wide And kept his chosen bowl beside.

I laughed at first, as people do
For children make beliefs from glue. A memory sticks, a flavour stays, And suddenly it shapes our days.

But then I thought a little more As philosophers do when bored. For isn’t meaning often found

Where common things lie round? A bowl of noodles, nothing grand, Yet there it sat, a promised land.

For what is home but a favourite taste? A thing we’d fight not to replace.
A smell, a song, a certain street, A way particular people greet.

For every nation at its start
Was somebody’s spaghetti heart.
A bowl remembered, passed along,
A place that whispered, “you belong.”

And is that not a lovely thing?
To hear familiar church bells ring?
To know the language of your street? To know exactly what you’ll eat?

But something curious occurred. The child grew older, as preferred.
And now he’d lecture with great pride On why his bowl was deified.

“The others lack what mine contains.” He’d say with confidence untamed.

“The shape is wrong, the sauce too thin, The fault is theirs, not mine, therein.”

And others gathered round the plate Declaring theirs alone was great.
One praised the noodles as long and thin Another worshipped sauce within.

The tables formed their little clans
With sauce-stained shirts and folded hands.

One corner cheered for red alone. Another claimed the white had grown Superior through sacred means
While green supporters formed machines.

And what began as love of taste Became a contest laid to waste.

For some forgot the simple truth
That first inspired their childhood youth.

They loved the bowl because it fed. Not because the others bled.

Yet now they mocked another’s meal

As though contempt made flavour real.

And stranger still, they taught their sons The reasons why the others’ wrongs Were written deep within the sauce
As though disagreement proved a loss.

A curious corruption this. A twist upon a simple bliss.

For love when healthy says, “This mine.” Love sickened says, “Yours must decline.”

The first builds homes and songs and art. The second walls the human heart.

And there I sat beside the child
Who’d once been stubborn, sweet, and wild.

He twirled his fork and gave a grin With sauce upon his cheek and chin.

And then he asked a question plain The sort that rattles through the brain.

“If mine’s my favourite, that’s alright.

Why must the others be less right?”

A question simple as could be. Yet difficult through history.

For kingdoms rose and banners flew. And very few that answer knew.

So eat your spaghetti if you must. Treasure its flavour, keep your trust. Remember where your bowl was made. Remember every debt repaid.

But if another takes a seat
With different sauce upon his meat, Perhaps before declaring war
Ask what he loves his noodles for.

For every child beneath the sun Believes their bowl is the chosen one.

The wisdom comes a little late

To love the meal,
Without hating another plate.