“So, he calls me the other day, not to say hello to the kids or tell me when the child support payment would be coming, but to ask me to make him lasagna!” exclaimed Lydia, while wringing the life out of the sponge into the sink. “The nerve of him. As if I’m going to drop everything that I’m doing to make that S.O.B. my lasagna. I told him to have his bimbo make it. And do you know what he said?”

Dominica starred into the sauce she was stirring, contemplating the question. “She doesn’t know how to cook?”

“Exactly! Apparently all she’s good for is a romp in the hay. So you know what I said to him?”

Dominica reached into the cabinet above the stove and pulled out a bottle of Marsala wine and poured a liberal amount into the sauce. “I’ve got your recipe right here?”
“No, but that would have been good. I told him to pay his child support and maybe if he was lucky, I wouldn’t cut off his balls the next time I saw him down at Sal’s with his bimbo.”

“It’sa ya own fault,” Old Isabella croaked from the kitchen table, where she sat grating cheese.

“Whaddya mean, nonna? I was a good wife. I cleaned; I cooked; I bore him two beautiful children and he rewards me by taking up with that puttana? How the hell is this my own fault?”

“It’sa da curse. He ate at ya table before he wasa in love wid ya. I’a tol ya not to feed him, but ya never listen to mia.”

Lydia rolled her eyes at Dominica, and continued to scour away the imaginary sins on the dishes from lunch.

“But I thought he was in love with me when I brought him home to eat—he said that he loved me, so how am I to blame for his leaving our marriage, please tell me for Christ’s sake, because I can’t figure it out!”

Old Isabella slammed her hand down on the table. “Dona taka da Lord’s nama ina vain! Da curse will be ona dis house for eterno. Now listen to mia. Da curse isa dis: All da woman in disa famiglia must never maka da lasagna until after dey are married. If a woman maka da lasagna before da man is in da famiglia, da marriage isa doomed.”

“But why, nonna? Why are we cursed? Why would a lasagna ruin a marriage?” Lydia sobbed.

Dominica left the stove and moved towards Lydia, wrapping her plump arms around her sister.

“Da lasagna lika da apple in da garden of Paradiso. It’s not to be given before marriage. Da man, he fall ina love wid da food and not da woman. Aska zia Anna, aska her why shea not married? He left her, but kept asking her for her lasagna. So one dey, she goes to him wid a big two-ton lasagna and throws it ata his head. He was in da hospital for a month. He still can’t talk good. But he don’t aska for food from disa famiglia no more.”

“So, should I do the same?”

“No! Ya gotta teacha da puttana how to make da lasagna, den da curse will be her a problema, capito—eh? And here’s da most important ingredient.” Old Isabella pulled a small blue bottle from the pocket of her black dress.

“Is that poison?”

“No, itsa laxative. He’ll never aska for lasagna again.”

Copyright 2008, Jennifer E. Hewitt