The one food I have trouble eating is lasagna. It looks nice and everything fresh out of the oven, but when it comes to chowing down, it’s anything but.
I recall my last experience with lasagna—a family dinner around Halloween this year. My mother placed a pan of freshly-baked lasagna on the table, cut it with surgical precision, and scooped identical cubes of lasagna onto each platter. My father and brother, both plenty experienced in the ways of mastication (master-caters), immediately started cutting and eating. I, however, was not too keen on how to tackle such a slab of noodle, tomato sauce, and meat. I thus took my knife and fork, and started sawing at a corner. Obviously I was doing it wrong, since the result of the initial incision was a small lasagna-explosion from the opposite corner. After seconds of sawing and ignoring my family’s disapproving glances, I finally had a passable bite on my fork. But at what cost?
At this point it would be quite easy to look at my plate and judge me as either domestically challenged, blind, or using chopsticks. Spread quite evenly among the plate were three wafers of noodle, a froth of tomato sauce, and a good splattering of hamburger. I venture to say that I could sprinkle a bit of parsley on the side and call it culinary art. After shirking my mother’s condescending stare, I decided to continue my undertaking. A cut here, stab there; pin, cut, pin, cut; lather, rinse, repeat.
My second attempt to sustain myself was no more fruitful than the first; a look at my platter now would induce vomiting, seizure, and in some rare cases, death. To attempt to eat my pureed lasagna would be as successful as trying to eat chicken soup with a pinecone. A knife and fork were obsolete. I opted for a spoon.
After eating my lasagna in the most avant-garde way imagined, I resolved to learn how to eat lasagna properly. To be honest, though, it’s a lot more fun the hard way.
That’s what she said.
I recall my last experience with lasagna—a family dinner around Halloween this year. My mother placed a pan of freshly-baked lasagna on the table, cut it with surgical precision, and scooped identical cubes of lasagna onto each platter. My father and brother, both plenty experienced in the ways of mastication (master-caters), immediately started cutting and eating. I, however, was not too keen on how to tackle such a slab of noodle, tomato sauce, and meat. I thus took my knife and fork, and started sawing at a corner. Obviously I was doing it wrong, since the result of the initial incision was a small lasagna-explosion from the opposite corner. After seconds of sawing and ignoring my family’s disapproving glances, I finally had a passable bite on my fork. But at what cost?
At this point it would be quite easy to look at my plate and judge me as either domestically challenged, blind, or using chopsticks. Spread quite evenly among the plate were three wafers of noodle, a froth of tomato sauce, and a good splattering of hamburger. I venture to say that I could sprinkle a bit of parsley on the side and call it culinary art. After shirking my mother’s condescending stare, I decided to continue my undertaking. A cut here, stab there; pin, cut, pin, cut; lather, rinse, repeat.
My second attempt to sustain myself was no more fruitful than the first; a look at my platter now would induce vomiting, seizure, and in some rare cases, death. To attempt to eat my pureed lasagna would be as successful as trying to eat chicken soup with a pinecone. A knife and fork were obsolete. I opted for a spoon.
After eating my lasagna in the most avant-garde way imagined, I resolved to learn how to eat lasagna properly. To be honest, though, it’s a lot more fun the hard way.
That’s what she said.
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