There's really no way to say this without offending some folk, so I'm going to go ahead and say it straight. Pasta is the Coldplay of the food world: bland, over-played filler squarely aimed at deluding the bourgeoisie into thinking they've got an creative edge.

I'll admit there are very rare circumstances, a bowl of freshly made pasta with a simple sauce can be a dish to nourish the soul as well as the body. Sadly, these circumstances almost never arrive, and instead we – the people – are forever saddled with squeaky, squishy, off-white starch, passing itself off as a meal. No food should have to pass itself as a bow-tie in order to be eaten.

Macaroni & cheese, you say? Jacket potato says I. Lasagne? Why not pizza. Your play is spaghetti bolognese, but I'll counter with chicken tikka masala.

I'm coming on strong to make a point. I don't actually hate the stuff, and certainly won't think less of you if you happen to like pasta. Or Coldplay, even. It's just not my scene.

Now, although the chances are undoubtedly slimmed after publishing this despicably graceless blog post, if you happen to invite me around for dinner at your place and we end up munching on tagliatelle and listening to Parachutes, I won't utter a word of complaint and will eat up everything you deign to put on my plate. I'm a bigot, not a brute. I would be so gobsmacked with gratitude that mere details as to which starch – musical or nutritional – we choose to fill ourselves with will pale into insignificance.

After all – and I am at least eighty percent serious about this – what's the point of living if we can't enjoy the company of our friends at the dinner table? Cold nights with warm, comforting food (I really don't care if it's pasta, potatoes, polenta, pumpkin or parsnips), enough wine to gently lift the heart and pleasant company to make it all worthwhile.

This post is part of the Alphabet Supremacy project, a collaboration between myself and Bice Dibley. Next week's word is "quick".