"What do I want a salad for when we have this?"
As ever, I didn't know whether to be offended or smile at your brusqueness. I probably did both. Mouth full, pointing your fork at my lasagna, sneering good naturedly at the salad offered, which was, in truth, doused with too much balsamic that I later learnt you disliked, you were telling me in your own way not to worry, stop fussing. Relax!
I did anything but relax that day. It was the first meal I was to cook for you, the first time I fed you, our first date. My lasagna is an all day affair whose origins, I am loath to admit, are not completely true to my Neopolitan roots, but are the result of a combination of eating my godmother's eggread more » Facebook Twitter Google+