BY REASON OF INSANITY by Edward L. Woodyard

By Reason of Insanity Chapter Fifty-Six

When we got back to the house and unpacked the flour and eggs, Mara became a protective guardian of the gastronome, the Charybdis of Chrystalis. She would monitor all activity in the kitchen, like a sentry on duty, except with her hands folded in front of her instead of hanging to her side.

I immediately raced to the in-house audio system in the living room and accessed a playlist of famous Italian arias. I needed to set the scene for my epicurean and psychological experiment of pastamonium by a Saramagolian Idiot.

Chaos in the kitchen.

Kōan in the kitchen.

Both are alliterative just the same.

The music thundered throughout the house, rattling the chandelier and lampshades. Was the opera too much? I had first considered Led Zeppelin – but then I opted for Rachmaninoff. No, both were inappropriate. I considered Bach since Mara loved his concertos so much. All wrong. I needed opera. Italian opera. Rigoletto and rigatoni.

The first thing I had to do was to get everything in order so that I could decipher the order later. That meant putting all the ingredients in front of me and finding everything I'd need to make all of this spaghetti that would feed 432 people.

I Pagliacci. "Vesta la Guibba."

I put a dozen cartons of a dozen eggs on the kitchen table. Next to it I put the six five-pound sacks of flour.

I retrieved a bottle of olive oil from the pantry. It was right next to the peanut butter, just as Mara said it would be. I put it on the kitchen table next to the flour.

Salt. The container of ionized salt was in the spice cabinet. Got it. Put it next to the olive oil.

La Traviata. "Libiamo ne' lieti calici."

I had to find the electric pasta machine that Phyllis gave to us a lot of Christmases ago. We didn't throw it out. Mara threw out nothing. It was packed away somewhere.

Gotta find it. Gotta find it.

"What are you doing?" Mara asked begrudgingly.

"The pasta machine that Phyllis gave us and we never used."

Mara went immediately to the garage and found it on a top shelf. I was right. Mara didn't throw out anything.

You're still there at the window? From when we watched Mara talking with Stuart Abramowitz and Barbara Gould? Stuart thought I was having a psyche versus soma disconnect. You remember. You were there. I'll ask you again: are you Soma?

Even if you are Soma, there's no need for you to be there now. You can go home or back from whence you came. Thank you, but we're fine now. Once I get this spaghetti together, it will all come together.

Kōan.

La Bohème

I took the pasta machine from Mara and returned to the kitchen.

I looked one more time into the garage. You can go now. Soma, really. You can go now.

I took the pasta machine out of its box and washed it in the kitchen sink, piece by piece. I dried it with a dish towel and then placed in the center of the kitchen island. It would be centerstage for this production.

Il Trovatore. "Anvil Chorus."

The picture on the box showed the spaghetti exiting the machine. It would have to be caught and strewn about in order to dry.

Hangers!

I looted the closets in the guest room and front hallway. Willie and Mara wouldn't let me go into any more bedrooms.

I ripped shirts and jackets from hangers. Mara was screaming at me but I couldn't hear her over Aida, the one with Leontyne Price and Franco Corelli. She was trying to stop me, but Willie tugged on her, "Let him, Mom! He's in a severe manic episode. He has to do this."

This again.

This.

THIS.

THIS!

Puccini. Gianni Schicchi. "O Mio Babbino Caro."

The spaghetti had to be al dente! It couldn't be overcooked or squelchy. No mush. Mush goes to the cat.

Squelchy? Would that be a good name for the cat? No. Kitty?

Kitty was too obvious.

I had hangers hanging (Duh! That's what hangers do. They hang.) around the kitchen from the drawer pulls and cabinet knobs. They were hanging off chairs and stools. Mara wouldn't let me put them in the living room or dining room. And definitely not in the greenhouse. It all had to stay in the kitchen.

Confinement. That was good. That helps with the process of healing.

Confinement meant a prison. Containment would be a better word.

I was good with that, keeping all the activity in one place. Choose your battles, I advised my patients. And myself. Was I now my own patient?

Of course. It was why I was creating this chaos in the first place: to decipher order from it.

Madama Butterfly. Maria Callas. "Un bel di vedremo."

I had assembled everything I would need to make the spaghetti itself and then make the spaghetti al dente, all strands to the strains of operatic virtuosos.

Flour.

Verdi.

Eggs.

Bellini.

Salt.

Rossini.

Olive oil.

Leoncavallo.

Pasta machine.

Donizetti.

Hangers.

Aria! Aria! Aria!

Aria! Maybe that's the name for the cat?!

I looked about the kitchen. All was set. It was almost getting time for the checkered flag. "Gentlemen, start your engines."

Not yet.