With every marriage comes a disaster – a disaster in which the wife says at the conclusion, I’ll laugh about this someday, but it won’t be today.
Disasters come in different forms. Sometimes it’s a miscommunication, sometimes it’s a priority conflict, and sometimes it’s in the kitchen; like when the wife decides earlier in the day that she needs to get rid of some red potatoes but doesn’t have any pot roast to have them with, so decides they’ll be okay as a side dish with lasagna. She’s been planning to make this particular lasagna dish for a while anyway, and the husband will be thrilled to come home to a hearty meal. So the wife goes home and throws on her apron, and takes out every ingredient for extra preparedness, and to top it off, the sink is free and everything’s clean, just how she likes it. And the wife starts to mince and dice and mix the ricotta mixture for the lasagna, thinking all the while that it couldn’t look more perfect, especially since this is her very first lasagna. She hums the familiar Beatles’ tune “I’ve Got a Feelin’”, because she indeed has a feeling that this lasagna will be fantastic, and also because she listened to it earlier on the way home from work. But trouble strikes, and the wife’s humming abruptly stops as she discovers that the lasagna noodles are too long for her 8×8 baking dish – the dish the recipe called for. The wife should stop here, but she continues, instead making the noodles fit because they have to. Slowly but surely the humming starts up again, but it’s forced and uncertain as the wife puts noodles on top of tomato-basil and ricotta on top of noodles. Her husband comes home just in time to see the finished, still uncooked result, and assures her the dish will be as tasty as it looks. The wife puts foil over the dish and leaves the lasagna in the oven for 20 minutes. So far so good. The wife uses this time to clean all of the new dirty dishes and get the red potatoes ready for roasting. The time is up – remove the foil. This time the recipe asks the wife to put the lasagna back in the oven for another 15 minutes until golden. The wife does so, and begins to wash mixed greens for a side salad.
The wife looks at the oven only to see smoke rolling out from every possible escape route. She panics and throws the oven dial down to OFF while also calling her husband frantically for help. The husband comes to her aid and points out that the lasagna is in fact boiling and spilling onto the bottom of the oven. Is it supposed to do that? The wife doesn’t know exactly, but she knows she followed the recipe to a T, so it has to be right. The smoke clears and the wife puts the lasagna back in the oven, this time at a lower temperature, but the lower temperature makes no difference. Again the smokes billows out from on top and underneath and from the sides of the oven. The wife throws the dial to OFF again and removes her now thrice baked lasagna to the kitchen counter. It’s done. Finished. Smoked out. Defeated, the wife hangs her head and walks the saddest of all the sad walks through the smoke to her husband, burying her face in his chest as he comforts her while also attempting to hide his amusement with the disaster at hand. Lasagna isn’t happening, but what about homemade pizza? The husband suggests they make a pizza, which will go perfectly with our salads and roasted potatoes.
The husband begins to rummage through the pantry for pizza items; the wife too preoccupied with limply stabbing her half-baked and badly burned lasagna with a spatula while also trying to figure out how she also managed to ruin the potatoes. The wife comes to just as the her husband is searching for the tomato-basil pasta sauce, to which the wife informs him, I used our only jar for the lasagna.
The husband, disappointed with the news but not wanting to discourage his wife any further suggested the only suggestion that could fit a disaster such as ours:
“Let’s have pancakes.”