One of my early discoveries as a newly minted city slicker was that nothing relaxed me at the end of a long, futile day of job hunting the way that a heaping, steaming plate of spaghetti did. Some might enjoy a day-ending bath or listening to meditation recordings. Me, I ate spaghetti. I’d make a big show of it, too, inserting a napkin into my shirt collar and everything. Then I’d wolf down two, sometimes three plates of the stuff, along with half a loaf of bread. I’d chase it with a glass of cold milk. Afterwards, I’d yank the…