Lasagna Rolls

 

   “Are we cookin’ or what?”

    I look up from my computer to see my daughter’s tanned face peeking around the doorframe.

    “Jeez, is it 5 already?” I always lose track of time when I am staring at this computer screen. I rub my eyes and push myself away from the desk. “What did you decide?”

    “I think,” Megan says, tapping an index finger on her chin, “lasagna rolls would be good.” My daughter, the future chef.

    “I don’t know, sounds kind of complicated for a ten-year-old.” I like to tease her a bit. It's a mother’s prerogative.

    Megan rolls her eyes and disappears from the doorframe. Before I can get this stiff, tired body out of the chair, I can hear her bounding down the stairs, jumping past the last two and landing on the floor with a thump. Oh to have that kind of energy. I better not eat too many of those lasagna rolls.

    “So, did you print out the recipe?” I already know the answer. She has all the ingredients lined up on the butcher block end of the counter: lasagna noodles, proscuitto, parmesan cheese, ricotta cheese, spinach, and all the stuff needed to bind it all together.  I used to dread preparing dinner with Megan, back when all I wanted to do was get some food on the table without having to fuss and bother.  Back then, when Megan was only 7, I shooed her out of the kitchen. I saw her as an intrusion into my duties. I just wanted to get it done. After a lot of begging on her part, I started to allow her small jobs: spreading butter on bread, tossing the salad. Slowly, I started to look forward to her company while I cooked, and came to realize that it was beginning to be the only time we actually talked. Any other time, her little brothers surrounded us, or Megan was off with friends. There are things that she shares with me that perhaps go unsaid at the dinner table with her father and brothers staring at her. Today is no exception.

    “Mom, how old were you when you and dad met?” Megan asks, cracking an egg into a bowl of ricotta cheese.

    “I was 15, you know that. Hey, pass me that whisk.”

    “Right, I remember,” she says, slapping the whisk into my palm. “When will I be old enough for a boyfriend?”

    “Well, I guess you are old enough now, but you certainly aren’t old enough to date,” I say, whisking the flour into the saucepan of hot milk. “Why? Is there a boy that you like?”

    Blushing, Megan adds the spinach to the ricotta and stares at it. “This looks disgusting. Maybe lasagna rolls don’t sound good after all.”

    “Don’t worry – it will look better when we pour the sauce over it all. Sauce makes everything better,” I say, hoping to save her from the awkward moment.

    “Ben.”

    “Ben?”

    “Ben is the boy, Mom,” Megan says, rolling her eyes.

    “Oh, right…I see.” I really need to be quicker. “Does he know you like him?” I ask, stirring the parmesan into the saucepan.

     “God no! I couldn’t tell him!” Megan shrieks. “I would die!”

    “That’s ‘gosh’ and no, you wouldn’t die. He might like you too, but how would either of you know if you aren’t willing to say?” I say, pouring the lasagna noodles into the pot of boiling water.

“No way, Mom. What if he laughs at me? What if he and his friends make fun of me? Boys…are… so… im-ma-ture.” Megan announces each syllable with a chop of the knife. The proscuitto gets a good whacking.

“Well, you have a point. I mean, they are 10, after all. You may just have to wait until they are, say, 16 or 17. Do you have the mozzarella shredded yet?”

“No, here,” Megan hands me the round ball of rubbery cheese. “Is this proscuitto chopped up enough? Can I add it to the ricotta?”

“I think you’ve done sufficient damage,” I say, examining her pile of pulverized proscuitto.

    “Do you think I will have a boyfriend someday, Mom?” Megan asks, opening the jar of marinara sauce. “Am I pretty enough? Abby says boys like long hair, but I kind of like keeping my hair this short.” She pulls on her short, layered locks, getting a little ricotta cheese in her hair.

    I look at my daughter.  Up until this moment, I assumed she knew how beautiful she was. I cringe at the idea that she is now worried about what the world thinks of her hair, her body, her face. It is too soon, I think to myself. Yet, here she is, her chocolate brown eyes pleading for reassurance. “Your hair is perfect,” I assure her. And it is. There is no way to get that beautiful russet out of a bottle. Believe me, I’ve tried.

    “Honey, you are a beautiful girl.” I know that a mother’s opinion hasn’t got much of a chance against Abby and her kind, at least not for long. But for now, it seems to help.

    “You have one of those faces that can get away with long or short hair. Besides, you have to wear your hair, not some boy, so do what makes you happy. I think your pixie hairdo is cute. Here, help me get these noodles out of the pot.” We both grab clean oven mitts out of the drawer and slide them on like doctors about to perform surgery.

    As we extract the rubbery lasagna ribbons from their salt-water boil, laying them on paper towels, I see flashes of my daughter as the woman she will soon be. These moments are few and far between right now, but they will soon be coming faster than I can track. Moments when my daughter seems less of a child and more like a teenager; less of a girl and more like a woman. Moments when I see her childhood fading.  They are quiet and quick; like a whisper and then gone with a giggle.  I am so thankful that I let her into this kitchen to cook with me. I don’t know how much longer she will want to prepare meals like this. Pretty soon, we will only be doing this on holidays when she comes home to see me. But for now, I am happy that I turned a duty into cherished memories with Megan.