There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves.
—Emma
Exactly thirty-seven hours and thirty-three minutes after my birthday, Marianne gave birth to a boy, Thomas Andrew. He was a breach and the obstetrician recommended the one thing that Marianne had dreaded above all else—a C-section. It wasn’t just the bikini line scar that got her; it was the thought of being wide awake as she was sliced opened.
“I felt like a Ziploc bag,” she confessed to me after it was over. But of course by the time I got through to her, and little Thomas was in her arms, the horror seemed worth it.
“You have to meet him!” she squealed proudly.
“I will as soon as I can,” I promised. “I’m so happy for you! I bet he’s gorgeous.”
“He is,” she cooed. “Oh, and I want my lasagna as soon as I’m home!”
“You got it.” I laughed.
Three days later, Marianne was home and I realized that I didn’t have any real clue how to make it. Of course I’d watched my grandmother and Ann dozens of times. They even let me layer ingredients. But what those ingredients were was beyond me. Downstairs to the kitchen I went. How hard could it be?
I grabbed what seemed like logical ingredients—ground beef, lasagna noodles, cheese, herbs, and the crowning glory, the pasta sauce. I ran over to the cupboard and snatched a giant jar of tomato sauce off the shelf. Easy.
The two deliciously gooey lasagnas cooling on the kitchen counter proved it. I had to admit I was proud of how they turned out. Maybe Nana and Ann’s cooking expertise had rubbed off on me.
“Come on in,” Frank whispered when I arrived. He took the two casserole dishes from me and I entered as quietly as I could. “Thomas is asleep.”
I tiptoed into the living room and there was Marianne, a bit tired looking but still beautiful and a pinkish baby in her arms swathed in a fluffy gray blanket.
“He’s so handsome!” I said. I was never sure what to say to new moms. New babies always looked kind of funny to me.
“I’d ask if you’d like to hold him but I know better.” Marianne grinned.
I’ve got a bit of a reputation for being antibaby. It’s not that I dislike babies. They simply terrify me. Newborns are so fragile that the thought of holding one and worse, holding one incorrectly, sends me into fits of anxiety. Maybe it was because I never wanted children of my own. I had zero maternal instincts. Even as a teenager I never babysat. Instead, I walked dogs for extra cash.
When I was an adult I made an attempt to be more baby friendly by watching a colleague’s eight-month-old son at a Christmas party. She had left me with the baby to go grab herself a cocktail. While she was out of sight I noticed her son trying to pull himself up onto his feet by grabbing my fingers. He stood there, holding on lightly but steadily. He seemed really good at it. Extremely good. So good, in fact, I was convinced that some magical combination of his balance and my skill at baby-watching was the reason for his success. When his mother returned I was excited to show her his trick.
“He can stand!” I exclaimed.
She looked at me doubtfully. But before she could answer, her son had grabbed onto my fingers and was once again up on his feet. Determined to show off his skills, I decided to pull my fingers away so that he could stand on his own. Only he didn’t. He crashed immediately to the floor and burst into tears.
“He’s too young to stand on his own!” his mother shrieked and picked him up.
No one ever asked me to watch a baby again after that. I was stuck with giving the gift of lasagna.
“I can’t wait to have a bite!” Marianne said as she dove her fork into the dish. It was steaming hot, thanks to their microwave. Frank sat down and they sank their teeth into a gooey mouthful. But then they made a face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, worried I’d poisoned them. “Is the cheese off?”
“It’s not the cheese,” Marianne said gingerly, spitting the food into a napkin. “Did you make this the regular way?”
Trick question. I tried to come up with a reasonable answer, considering I’d never made it regularly or irregularly ever before. “Yes, I think so.”
“It’s the sauce,” Frank offered. “It’s sweet.”
“Sweet? Is that bad?” I asked and went to the kitchen to try for myself.
“And spicy,” he continued. “Kind of sticky.”
I shoved a fork into the lasagna and took a bite. Right away I knew. I love Ann, but if she wanted to make a living cooking she should learn how to label things better.
“It’s barbecue sauce,” I announced grimly. “I grabbed the wrong jar.”
“That’s okay.” Marianne smiled. “I’ve never had barbecue lasagna before. Maybe it will catch on.”
“Yes, like barbecue chicken pizza,” Frank offered helpfully and bravely took another bite, then grimaced. “Or maybe not.”