My spaghetti is missing. Not leftover cooked spaghetti gone from the refrigerator, but the stick spaghetti waiting to be boiled. Gone. I can’t even ask how something like this happens — I know how it happens. I moved it. Took it off the kitchen counter when I was clearing space for a dinner party and tucked it away in a safe spot. Oh, how I hate that safe spot in my home. It already hides a large number of gifts, keeping them safe and out of sight, and now it’s chowing down on my spaghetti. I hope it chokes. Sure, I could go out and buy another spaghetti jar, but that would give me two jars and just how, I ask, will that help me get rid of stuff? And I really am trying to get rid of stuff. When my sister, Suzan, came from Torrance, Calif., recently, she went home with three paintings off my wall. Her husband went home with the paintings, really. They were big ships at sea, painted by his family friend, Henry Bernal.