Murakami's Spaghetti

My current read on a Saturday afternoon as this is Murakami's Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman. I have been jumping books in the last few weeks, from Jack Kerouc's Dharma Bums to Dambisa Moyo's Dead Aid. Different days, different needs I say. 

In one of the 24 short stories, The Year of Spaghetti, the character makes spaghetti every day, every week and for a long time. Cooks and eats alone, convinced that it's best enjoy alone. It's a simple story really, revolves around the character and spaghetti cooking and one telephone call. 

But I thought the best part of the story is when it ends with this:

Durum semolina, golden wheat wafting in Italian fields.

Can you imagine how astonished the Italians would be if they knew what they were exporting in 1971 was really loneliness?