Lasagna

There are a few meals that immediately conjure up images of my adolescence and dinner around the family table. My mom wasn't a gourmet cook, but she was a mighty fine one and some of her recipes did more than just feed a growing boy. When I see or hear about a certain food or meal today, I think about the way my mom used to make it. I also think about those moments frozen in time when I first experienced them. And those memories will live with me forever, or until they're stolen by old age.

When I was a kid I would bolt from the school doors after the final bell rang and race home. I'd push through my front door with the weight of the world released from my shoulders and throw my backpack down, run upstairs to my room and tear through my drawers looking for some play clothes to wear. I'd run back down the stairs, two by two, and right into the kitchen. I used to always ask what was for dinner because I was an inquisitive boy; that and I was always hungry. I knew it would be good no matter what, but if it was something like lasagna the anticipation would kill me.
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