Spaghetti, are you sure?

The other day, my father, who is almost 86 years of age, asked me an out of the blue question. His mind is still alert and can express opinions, remember if he's seen an episode of Poirot - his favourite TV detective , and laugh at a joke, so the question had to be taken seriously. It was not the rambling of a failing brain.

The question was not easy to answer. In fact, I couldn't answer it clearly or precisely. It wasn't whether God exists, or is there an afterlife but simply what does spaghetti taste like. He'd seen it being eaten by people on TV and was quite curious about the stuff. He had gathered it was soft, as he reassured me that spaghetti was the stuff seen hanging from a fork prior to being twirled around and placed in to the mouth.

He'd not even had the tinned variety and this was not the spaghetti he was referring to. It was the real thing which had been boiled until edible. I explained some of the ways it was eaten - mixed with other ingredients or a meat or cheese sauce. I described my favourite and, perhaps, the simplest method of preparing it- ie spaghetti with garlic and olive oil. Boil the spaghetti until soft. Take good olive oil, heat gently and add four or five crushed cloves of garlic. Fry gently and do not burn the garlic, and then mix with the drained, softened spaghetti. Place on a warmed bowl and add shavings of good parmesan and there you have it. Its just good, tasty, fast food. I think he would like to try spaghetti.

What amuses me about the enquiry is that my dad ate a most limited diet built around fried eggs and bacon, pork pies and tomatoes. He ate fish, fried of course. and loved a traditional Sunday roast. Except traditional meant that the vegetables, which at one time he grew himself, had to be boiled to a virtual puree, and to whatever he was eating was added salt and ground white pepper and, to add a dash of flavour to carrots, some Worcester sauce.

His unique contribution to the world's dishes was sticks of celery eaten with Hula Hoops placed along the length of the stalk. He couldn't get over the texture and the right saltiness this creation gave him.

His single culinary art developed a delightful way of frying an egg, which involved my dad stooping at the hob with the frying pan handle lodged around his belt buckle and him bending at the knee so that the lard, never, ever oil, would form a deep pool at the edge of the pan. Into this, he would break an egg, knowing instinctively the right level of sizzle as the egg sunk into the deep fat. This gymnastic approach ensured that the egg white remained compact and did not spread into a layer across the pan and also there was sufficient oil to baste the yolk, the final flourish, before lifting it out and onto a plate. He never cooked more than one egg at a time, so breakfast took time to cook, after he had ascertained how many eggs each person needed.

And now spaghetti. What shall I do? Well, the answer is easy. I must make some for him. I wonder if fried egg and bacon spaghetti can be done. Carbonara without the cream. I'll have a go. All I need is a hot food carrier..........