Hello, World

elbow pasta here.

Christina Kutulos
Sep 7, 2018 · 3 min read

Hi there! I’d like to formally welcome you to the inner workings of a gluten-free noodle trying to make her way through the sauces and dishes of everyday life.

You may be questioning at this point, “I am following the thoughts of a noodle? Are we sure this person is a junior in college, and not some five year-old?” Well, despite looking like a minor, I am in fact quite serious on this belief. Through strict data analysis of my own, including observations and my very very factual opinion, I have concluded that everyone can be categorized into a type of pasta. Each shape, size, length, stuffed-nature is taken into consideration with the task of delegating pastas, all with the understanding that the wide variety of pastas correlates to the diversity among people. These little macaroni, generally, stay the same at the heart of their base recipe, capturing the inherent similarities, yet changed ingredients and varieties show the qualities from person to person better than any other food group.

For myself, I am your average elbow noodle, that tiny little curved pasta with a gluten-free base. If you are still not on board with this whole whacky scale of “spirit pastas,” picture this. How would an elbow pasta walk? Its two short “legs” trying to keep up with each other, maybe so much so that they start to slip out from underneath causing it to roll. It is a cute image, with the pasta having every well-intention to do something right, but somehow it slips up in a display of potentially charming despair. It’s awkward, it’s trying, it’s positively a curved smile — it’s me. So if you’re feeling undercooked, overcooked or just as you are, explore the world from the viewpoint of this elbow pasta.

woah woah. Okay maybe not the world that place is pretty large, but let’s just narrow it down to pop culture and storytelling, as I dare you to envision this:

It is the first day of your GE and the teacher pairs you up to “get to know your peers better.” The task, answer a simple question — what is your favorite movie? A wave of nerves and cautious thinking takes control of you. Is that rom-com you hold near and dear to your heart that worthy of the title favorite, like seriously how much will you get judged for being a Julia Roberts fanatic? Should you bluff and just say that Oscar-nominated classic that society reveres? I mean it didn’t necessarily ask best, just favorite, but are they one in the same. ugh. Why does a well-intended ice-breaker question cause me so much stress?

Because it represents the story of us — what we attach to, how we interpret interpersonal relationships, how we see ourselves, or rather how we want to see ourselves. It is a secret window into our perspective, into you. For a continuous metaphor, it is the best dish your pasta is complemented by; it shows off you.

I find myself having to constantly assert this ground and importance of movies, television, books, and the whole slew of entertainment mediums that are often looked as purely enjoyable. “You’re studying an easy major, all your classes are fun.” Albeit, I am not complaining about watching a movie on a Thursday for class (aside from the freezing temperature of Norris Theater), but Narrative Studies raises questions quite simply, why stories? There is a yearning as humans to bond and connect; how else to accomplish that without stories and our shared experience. Now in modern times it now just becomes a matter of how and more even more relevant how successfully.

My friends, those in majors categorized as, let’s call them, “more-likely-to-secure-a-definite-job” will roll their eyes at me when I begin to dissect how streaming networks have begun to change the intentions of television, and respond with a “can’t you just enjoy the show.” To me, what is beneath the surface is a whole lot more intriguing. Life gets a whole lot more fun when you stop taking things for surface value.

And for reference, my favorite movie is a toss-up between (500) Days of Summer and When Harry Met Sally.