This is the story of how it can take me three days to make a lasagne…not because of perfectionism or rare delicioso ingredients, but because of not having cheese or not having time to finish or whatever.  It is the story beyond the story, of what stopped me, of the chaos–kitchen chaos in this case–the grownups in the house accept and work around because of the busy lives of a working family. Usually I tell these stories, full of mishaps and boring details of things that get in the way, to my friends, and then sometimes they say: you should write this down.  I have a hard time writing stories down because they don’t seem interesting enough to be written down, but in this case, with the extra value given of having a record of the recipe I made and how I made it bigger or better or whatever, may be enough to overcome my basic LaForge (Mainer?) fear of getting too big for my britches.  Here goes…


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