Though it may seem an impossible stretch of the imagination for some people, there is such a thing as too much lasagna.The parents of Alex and Caroline’s schoolmates coordinated efforts like a suburban culinary drill team and delivered dinner to the house every night for a year. There was always lasagna, created in nearly every imaginable permutation, in the freezer and the fridge. I don’t remember ever encountering one made of fruit, but that may just be a willful memory lapse on my part. It was a remarkable thing, the purest kind of love people are capable of. But after the events of the coming year were over and gone, neither the kids nor I ever desired another close encounter of the lasagna kind. That pastalogical block is true to this day. (Thank you, though, dear friends, and apologies to Italy and Italian chefs everywhere.)
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©2010 Catherine Graves