Eastside Road, March 19, 2011—STILL, AFTER ALL THESE years — fifty-four in May — she surprises me from time to time. A couple of months ago, for example, I was explaining to someone that she doesn't really like lasagne.
What gives you that idea, she said. Of course I like lasagne; I've always liked lasagne.
It was the first I'd heard of it. Never in all our married years had she made lasagne before, or ordered it in a restaurant, or shown that much interest when it was served in someone's home, where we'd been invited for dinner.
But, it turns out, she likes lasagne.
The first hint today came when I saw a big bunch of chard on the kitchen island. An hour or two later I smelled ham, then sausage cooking.
Then, when I went it to mix up a couple of Martinis, I saw the oven was lit. Always a good sign.
Then she took the pan from the oven. Sformata, I said, with some surprise. No, she said; and calmly cut a couple of goodsized squares and served them forth. The recipe's here, if you want to try it; and I recommend it. Delicious.
Cheap Nero d'Avila