Lasagna, Redeemed

True story. Unfortunately. 

I felt accomplished when we left for church. A gigantic salad crisped in the fridge. Homemade French bread was sliced, seasoned, and reassembled into a garlic loaf. A gooey chocolate dessert called enticingly from the counter. Best of all, a gorgeous, meaty lasagna waited in the oven on Delayed Time Bake, a feature that would give us a table-ready dinner when we walked in the door. 

It was important to have our food ready immediately upon arrival because three Brazilian schoolteachers would be with us. They had a tight schedule and needed to leave by 2:00, which wouldn’t give us much time together.

Our link to the Brazilians was through the University of Delaware. International students who came to university to learn English could sign up to receive a host family. As hosts, we brought them to our home twice a month so they could practice English, visit an American family, and learn more about our culture. We enjoyed our interaction with them so much that on this occasion, we invited church friends to come for lunch and share the fun of a multi-cultural friendship.

When we got home from church, the Brazilian ladies stopped by our Rose of Sharon to take selfies and group portraits. I smiled, enjoying their laughter and rapid Portuguese.

And then I saw John at the front door. His eyes sent frantic messages I could not understand.

As soon as I stepped within whispering range, John said, “Something smells burnt.”

My lasagna.

John opened the front door, and from the smell that wafted onto the porch and down to the Rose of Sharon, I knew our lunch was in serious trouble.

I crept to the oven, scarcely brave enough to look inside. And there was my double-sized lasagna, not just overdone but charred beyond recognition. The delayed start had malfunctioned, and the lasagna baked for the entire four hours we were gone. I pulled the pan from the oven and surveyed it with morbid fascination. My beautiful lasagna was now a solid, black rectangle that thumped woodenly when I tapped it. Later, it would slip from the pan in one piece, an astonishing specimen of cookery-gone-bad.

But now, guests streamed through the front door, directly into the kitchen and within sight of their ruined lunch. Chefs in small houses have no secrets. Oh well. I wasn’t going to be like my relative who apologized profusely over every recipe she served. I decided to face the obvious with good humor.

“My oven malfunctioned,” I said to the Brazilian ladies, hoping their grasp on English was robust enough to understand. “But don’t worry. I will make something else.”

I ran to the basement for home-canned spaghetti sauce. I stirred every spaghetti noodle I owned into boiling water, praying God to multiply the amount and to please, please erase the memory of this culinary disaster from our guests’ minds. It would be humiliating to be remembered internationally by an inedible lunch.

I served the meal, poured water, and offered extra Parmesan. I brewed coffee and took comfort in the happy chatter of my guests. It sounded like things were turning out all right. Who could know? Maybe the lasagna would be a darker memory to me than it was to our friends.

But before I got too comfortable with this idea, I saw the visiting children hovering curiously around the lasagna. Their mother is my good friend and a renowned cook who doesn’t burn Sunday dinners to this degree.

“Was this—was this real food?” a pixie-like girl asked. She pointed at the pan with a milk-white forefinger.

“Yes. It was your lunch.”

“Oh.” Her voice was small.

“Was it—was it our dessert?”

Five years later, the host program closed (no reflection on the lasagna), terminating our flow of international guests. Our friends, the ones with the darling pixie, gave birth to a son.

Wanting to celebrate his arrival, I baked homemade French bread and used it to make garlic loaf. I tossed a gigantic salad and baked a decadent chocolate dessert. Best of all, I delivered a gorgeous, meaty lasagna to their door.

I was hardly home before my friend sent me a text saying, “Now this is real food!”

It was lasagna, redeemed.

I only regret that three Brazilian teachers hadn’t joined them for lunch.