I was thirteen when I started making lasagna, if only as a continued tribute to this story. Miss Samonte was the name of my Foods class teacher in high school, and junior year was all about baking. After classes that taught us how to make pinwheel cookies and pigs in a blanket, the final recipe was lasagna. We made the pasta with flour, eggs, a lot of mess, and a rolling pin. The weekend after that class, I attempted to replicate it at home.
After a day’s work of rolling and boiling lasagna noodles and making the two sauces for the dish, the house smelled of flavors we all had only previously smelled in restaurants. Surely the youngest daughter of this family didn’t just make lasagna from scratch! But I did, and I pulled the rectangular dish out of the oven too eagerly. Its slipped from my mittened hands and broke into pieces on the floor! Tears welled up in my eyes as I stared at the globs of noodles, sauce and cheese, and smelled the aromas wafting in my face. The shards of thick glass protruded from the heap of ruined lasagna. I ran away from the scene and locked myself in the bathroom for hours. Continue reading