December 19th, 2009:

I am stuck in a corporate “country inn” in Harrisburg, PA with my mom. Snowed in, plus she has been battling a cold. After enormous amounts of TV, I have cabin fever and am writing this on the hotel lobby computer. I moved out of Baltimore Friday and am on my way home. No more job, no more relationship.

I am bipolar. I have a long history of it, the most recent stuff happening in Baltimore after two years of no medication. And that is the primary reason I had to leave. No other way around it. Having a mental illness does not help in any relationship which has other stressors. Everything piles on top of each other, and the load is too much to bear. I am going back home to stabilize and tie up unraveled ends.

My life has been happening in fours since I turned 18. Four years of first college (unfinished), four years of second college and living with my parents, four years of Buffalo, and now almost four months in Baltimore with a man I had to leave but still love so dearly.

I could see my life as lasagna. Layers of flavors adding up to a meal which really satisfies. You cover it with foil and put it in the oven. I can only hope when I am at the end of my life, and give God my lasagna for His oven, the meal was satisfying. Thus far, I can say it has been. Though I have struggled so much, the ingredients in each layer were so varied, real, and valued. Small details = pinches of oregano and basil. Enormous sweeping moments = the bright punch of tomato.

This last layer was the absolute richest of all. True real love. But some ingredients were mixed in that need to be taken out. Maybe that layer will come around again with different flavors. I can only fervently hope.

December 22^nd, 2009:

I am home.  Today was the day of lasagna-making. My father turns 70 in a month, and these next four weeks will be about him. He loves my lasagna. I originally got it from the Vegetarian Times cookbook, a spinach lasagna recipe. I think that book is still in Baltimore, or on its way.

My hastily-copied directions look like hieroglyphics, but I have done this lasagna so many times it is imprinted in my brain. I have started riffing off it. In Buffalo, making it for a friend’s birthday potluck, I didn’t have enough spinach, so I added canned artichoke and more cheese to balance out the taste. It was a hit. This time I added chicken to the tomato sauce. I am not fond of sloppy, gloppy lasagna. It shouldn’t swim on your plate. It should be compact. The chicken gives more structure.

It started off with a catfight. We own four cats. Sassy, the alpha queen bee (on the left), and Mr. Squeakers, the new and only male (on the right), decided to ferociously tussle.

The next surprise was the local garlic. My mom bought it from Lain’s Cider Mill. I love it brown and homegrown, rather than a perfect smooth white.

I fried up garlic and onions in olive oil and added the tomato-soaked chicken. I added more tomato sauce and some basil, oregano, and black pepper.

I had to take an opera break on the piano in the back room. When you cook anything Italian, you must sing some Puccini.  It is such a joy to let my voice out again.

I created separate ricotta fillings, one with canned artichoke and one with steamed stemmed baby spinach. I split a chopped garlic clove, a carton of ricotta and one beaten egg between them. And handfuls of asiago. Tons of asiago. Salt & pepper. Mash, mash, mash.

Mom helped. She shredded the mozzarella and relished layering the noodles. I made a white sauce for the bottom and top.

Pitty-Pat came along to sample.  She found out she is not a noodle cat.

And then it was ready to be slid into the oven for an hour at 350, covered in aluminum foil, last fifteen minutes uncovered. Lasagna is home.