Afer dinner, it was Gus’s turn to clean up—a responsibility we apparently took more seriously than he did—and he just left the half-full pot on the stove. By the time he came back for Fall Term, the leftovers (still on the stove) had definitely passed their prime.
It was cornocopia-like in a way - or perhaps a manifestation of biblical loaves and fishes. The pot, which started out only half-full of leftover spaghetti, was now overflowing – the lid suspended mystically above. And while the fibrous green fluff that now comprised most of the volume didn't really look like spaghetti, it was still intriguing.
We wondered aloud what mysteries of science were held within (and without) that pot; could it be the next penicillin? Perhaps an updated derivative of lysergic acid? Since none of us had any training in biology, beyond clumsy experiments related to the reproductive process, so we wisely chose to leave further investigation to the experts. And after the dog—armed as she was with her long, double-barrel olfactory sensors—appeared to reject the leftovers as a worthwhile source of calories (something we had never seen before), none of us volunteered to second guess her expertise either.
We respectfully laid the remnants to rest in the garden, and speculated what might propogate within that milieu. Perhaps a beanstalk, which might serve for an upwardly-mobile lad as an avenue to adventures and riches, in a zero-sum game with a couplet-spouting giant? Or perhaps a new hybridized spaghetti tree? We never knew. Our attention spans were, at best, those of children, and there were many shiny objects to track, so the leftovers became our anonymous gift to the ages.
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