The return of mini ravioli
This is a tale about mini ravioli. Once beloved, then lost and now found again.
When my son was a little boy he only ate white things – white bread, mayonnaise, mashed potatoes and pasta. Specifically, fresh mini ravioli made by Buitoni. Specifically. It was the only thing he knew how to make himself and he ate it almost every day. No, that’s a lie. Every day. I realize that if I wasn’t before, I am now a candidate for Worst Mother In The World. But the boy was a stick and it didn’t seem to do him any harm.
But I did not realize his emotional attachment to tiny pillow-shaped pasta. One day I came home from the grocery store and he went through the bags looking for the mini ravioli. It was not there. “Where’s my mini ravioli?” he asked in that slightly squeaky voice that boys who are about to reach puberty exhibit. “They didn’t have any,” I told him. “Publix has stopped carrying it.”
I’ll let Noah pick up the story as published in a Facebook poast.
I was devastated. I was, in fact, so offended that 10-year-old me confronted the manager of Publix and demanded that they stock my beloved mini ravioli. It briefly worked, but only briefly.
I remember this vividly. Naturally, because he was 10 years old, he was forced to ask me to drive him to the Publix. But I decided this was a lesson in self-reliance and I made him negotiate the entire process of seeking out the manager and requesting the return of the mini ravioli himself. And, yes, he did demand it. Kind of pushy for a 10 year old but I was proud of him.
Twelve years later, Noah is an adult. A college graduate. A fine cook with a sophisticated palate. I sent him to the Publix for some things I needed. And he came home with this:
Now it’s called ravioletti, but it’s the same stuff. Maybe Buitoni lost the mini ravioli name because they were convinced Noah was still after them. But, no, he hasn’t gone away. And he doesn’t care what they call it.
Can you see that 10-year-old boy in there somewhere? I can.