Spaghetti

My first memory was centered around the dinner table one night while we were eating spaghetti. It was dark outside and we were still living at our house at 472 McHaley St. My dog named Emeril was inside the house at the time, which means that it was probably winter or late fall, early spring; in other words, it was cold outside. My mom and dad were sitting at the table with my younger brother and we were about to dive into our evening meal; the spaghetti was dished out, sauce poured on the noodles and the Parmesan cheese was being passed around. Instead of my parents helping me shake the cheese out, I decided that I could do it myself. I opened up the top of the container and began to shake out the cheese. I made a critical error as to the amount of cheese I allowed myself to pour out. Instead of opening the side of the can where only a little cheese comes out, I opened the large hole side and dumped out almost all the cheese onto my spaghetti. Instead of the plate having mostly red on it covering the tan noodles, a mountain of white now covered the entire plate, allowing the smallest amount of rest of the mountain to be seen under the snow that had just been dumped on it.