Potluck Zine
•
9th February 2022
When I don't know what to say, I cook
"How about your lasagna?” asked my
boyfriend, on one of those anonymous
nights in quarantine that blend into so
many. We’d fallen into the inevitable
quagmire of what to have for dinner,
something that throughout the pandemic
became the north star of our day, the
current that kept us moving. “That is, if
it’s not too much trouble. I’m happy to
help”, he added.
I nodded. It would never be too much
trouble really, but I felt more eager to make
it detecting the gentle plea in his voice. I
knew it was his favourite dish of mine.
Not because it was anything particularly
ground-breaking but for the opposite;
because it represented something
comforting, something familiar.
While the act of making lasagna—dutifully
chopping up the veg, simmering the ragu,
whipping the bechamel into excruciating
smoothness and carefully layering the
golden cuts of pasta one by one—might
seem like a labour of love for him, in
hindsight I can see it’s always been more
gratifying for me.