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The Only Recipe For Lasagna You'll Ever Need

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Lasagna is a very wide, flat pasta, sometimes with wavy edges. It is typically served in alternating layers with cheese, a sauce, and often other ingredients such as ground beef, sausage or spinach. Lasagna traditionally made by Nannas and Dads on Thursday nights, so really can't be that difficult. Lasagna breakfast of champions. Choose lasagna as good first meal for boy humans (1) and boy trolls (1) to show you can overcome this cooking thing. Feel impugned when Rose suggests you would both eat popcorn between two slices of bread and call it a day. Advise her you only did that the once.

Explain to cooking comrade what lasagna is and why it is awesome. Explain third time. Cheerfully ignore noises of disdain!

Glance over recipe. Alchemize ingredients. Wonder why alchemized ingredients always taste a little funny and never quite the same. Give co-troll high five that he returns as attempt to slap your hand up. Begin.




Shred two (2) cups mozzarella cheese enthusiastically. Shred finger enthusiastically too. Apply band-aid while best troll buddy kind of has a noisy freak-out in your direction and takes over. Reflect that letting a sicklekind wielder cut stuff up not really the best idea, although efficient. Harvest two (2) cups of brutally murdered mozzarella. Grate one-quarter (1/4) a cup of cheddar cheese instead. Enthusiastically grate self. Apply band-aid. Be accused of being a moron and something called “ineptifuckery”.

Chop two (2) teaspoons of basil and oregano each very very gently. Decide that doesn’t really look like enough and chop up more until you have made a tasty little basil and oregano pile. Pry open jar of spaghetti sauce. Taste spaghetti sauce with grumpy troll. Listen to query about why the both of you can’t just eat the fucking spaghetti sauce without the rest of this awful-looking hoofshit. Kind of agree!

Fail to prevent Karkat from eating spoonful of raw BEAST MINCE. Worry that you should be making him puke up or something. Figure he’s okay. Wonder how his puking would be achieved anyway. Ignore suggestion of “looking at your goddamn face.” Fail to prevent him from eating another spoonful of raw BEAST MINCE.

In large skillet, brown mince. Prod with slotted spoon. Prod again. Turn up heat on high to encourage browning. Blacken meat. Flip over. Blacken hamburger on other side. Be major league disquieted at meat’s color, texture and slipperiness. Object to troll comrade’s comparison of meat to “imp [genetic material].” Bravely taste meat! Figure meat will be okay if smothered under spaghetti sauce. A lot of spaghetti sauce. Smother a lot of spaghetti sauce over implike meat, add water, cover. Hunger beginning to build!

As chief palhoncho, instruct counterpart palhoncho to cook pasta. Do not accept remarks regarding your species’s desire to “meddle like assholes” with ingredients, as humans invented the pizza and this nullifies any and all arguments. Stop Karkat when he takes a bite out of the uncooked pasta. Explain it should not actually be crunchy! Hold mini-debate about crunchiness virtues. Slapfight over pasta. Retrieve metaphorical friendleader mantle and put co-troll in charge of dumping pasta in pot of boiling (rolling boil) water.

Heat oven to 350°F. Get distracted with co-troll discussing what kind of movie explosion is best (exploding building or exploding vehicle? Oh man, this is difficult). Come out on different sides of the argument. Swap sides of the argument. Convince him to watch Terminator 2 later. Reflect that as roommates go, Karkat Vantas is totally amazing and just the best you could ever ask for, like, even with the pasta chewing and the way he sometimes drinks your Listerine. Feel relieved that he no longer hates you in the kismesexy way and that you are simply the best human-troll buddies who ever were. Impulsively embrace troll buddy in bro hug for forty-three seconds until hug is well-done or buddy’s shit has flipped. Reflect vaguely that his hair smells a little like dusty Skittles. Get large bowl.

In large bowl, mix a bunch of cheese (ricotta, cheddar, mozzarella corpse) with the tasty piles, some garlic powder and extra salt to cover up for the mince accidents. Break two (2) eggs into bowl. Consider how that is harder than it looks. Pick bits of eggshell out with troll comrade. Guess that eggshell never killed anybody! Wonder aloud what eggshell is made out of. Reject “cluckbeast bones” as unsatisfying. Suddenly both be caught up in this mind-blowing conundrum, because you can tell that I cannot believe you’re wasting my valuable air having this goddamned blowsuck of a conversation is tinged with scientific curiosity. Wish you had an encyclopedia handy. Realize you do. Leave message for Rose. Feel hunger, belatedly remember pasta.

Retrieve pasta from pan, drain. Examine. Realize no pasta you have ever eaten looks like this. Pasta the colour of Dave’s legs. Rate pasta’s texture as “gooshy.” Confer. Co-troll insists it will be fine and he is not fucking cooking that again due to worries he will die of starvation right here in this shitty little kitchen. Point out co-troll did not do much apart from backseat pasta-cooking and prodding and whatever, but not too seriously because you kind of feel the same way. Get baking dish. Spread about one-third (1/3) a cup of the mince stuff at bottom of dish, alternating with (soggy) strips of Dave’s legs pasta and salty cheesepile mix. Repeat until lasagna stratified all the way to the top.

Behold uncooked lasagna with troll buddy. Concur optimistically that it will look better when cooked. Hide its shame with baking foil and slide dish carefully into the oven. Set timer for forty-five (45) minutes. Feel crippling hunger pangs.





-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] --

TT: Calcium carbonate. Primary component of shells, pearls and snails.
EB: WITH EVERY ADDENDUM THAT I’M WISHING FOR MY OWN SWIFT DEATH: BUT HOW THE FUCK DOES THAT GET INTO THE CLUCKBEAST?
EB: seriously, how does it get into the cluckbeast?
EB: i mean chicken?
EB: DOES IT EAT ROCKS?
EB: oh man i’d eat a rock right now.
EB: FUCK YOU SIDEWAYS, EGBERT, I’M SO GODDAMN HUNGRY I’D EAT YOU RIGHT NOW IF I WASN’T STASHING YOUR BRITTLE FLESHSACK FOR AN EMERGENCY.
EB: no way! i’m so hungry i would eat me AND you, probably. when i figured out how.

TT: ...

-- tentacleTherapist [TT] has become an idle Chum! --

tentacleTherapist has set a new status: A sort of idiot fractal, spinning itself out into innumerable geometric fragments of idiot.



Let gaze fall upon spaghetti sauce jar (half full) and paring knife. Promptly think up prank so unique in breadth and spec that all your Egbert senses tingle in unison. While co-troll pokes aimlessly at dishes, subtly tuck pointer finger down and smother spaghetti sauce over created “stump.” Wait. Wipe grin off face. Let out bloodcurdling yell while gripping both hand and knife, making sure spaghetti sauce oozes out the sides. Fold in whimpers for emphasis: “oh no”, “oh no oh no”, judiciously folding in a “oh God Karkat what have I done!!” which you suspect has gilded the prank lily.

Watch as co-captain turns the colour of strawberry jam dumped in a concrete mixer. Watch as co-captain then turns the colour of drowned mice. Sweeten batter with troll buddy’s what the fuck Egbert oh fuck oh god oh no oh god I shouldn’t have let your flappy fucking grubfingers around the knife again oh god oh god let me see oh shit Egbert hold on you’ll be okay. Add salt; laugh hysterically.

Let troll buddy pry apart your hands and remove knife. Display sauce-covered fingers. Laugh. Be violently shaken until your bones form stiff peaks. Laugh harder. Behold troll so incandescently furious he is vibrating a little like an angry hummingbird, eyes wide and wild. Inquire as to whether he is “mad.” Have face unexpectedly windscreened with gloppy troll handful of spaghetti sauce.

Smear sauce-covered hands over front of palhoncho’s t-shirt. Note squawk. Have sauce added to hair. Reload, dump sauce down foodassassin’s neck. Begin sauce battle the likes of which shall never be seen again, yea and verily, from this universe to the next! Ricochet around kitchen, being sure to bruise elbows as you wrestle for control of the ammo jar, scraping red down each other until he kicks your shin and steals the loot. End up pinned on kitchen floor with remains of jar poured down your shirt while being announced the “MISERABLE DOUCHE-GOD OF DIPSHITTERY.” Have remnants savagely wiped on glasses. Laugh so hard you breathe in sauce.

Perceive Karkat’s bitchface. Laugh harder. Laugh until his expression coagulates into scowl-smiling, bright black hair glued to his forehead with tomato sauce and looking completely fucking ridiculous! Sit up. Imagine you also look completely fucking ridiculous. Wipe sauce off glasses. Proclaim you haven’t had a good food fight since you and your Da -- crash train of thought into pyrotechnic flames. Clean sauce off glasses. Clean sauce off glasses more. Sauce is not coming off glasses. Let co-troll take away glasses and awkwardly wipe on bits of his t-shirt not hemorrhaging spaghetti sauce. Hear co-troll saying, here, you egregious nookstain, and blink as he eases them back on your face.

Add terrible abyss in your ribcage you cannot look at. Knead in palms being slick for some reason. Stir together with how overwhelmingly glad you are that Karkat Vantas is alive and your friend and here and your buddy and how you just get kind of delighted whenever you are reminded of his existence, which isn’t a weird way to think about someone who is a best bud, not really, except sometimes like right now you get this feeling like you want to make now a photograph so you can keep it in your hands to look at. Sprinkle with that weird unmarked jar of always wanting to make him savagely still so you can see him before he slides out of view, like all you’re starved for is seeing. Raise hand and decorate troll with red sauce mustache. Slide your finger over his lip.

Watch as Karkat bares shiny white teeth and snarls, eyes yellow as yolk and half-smile dissolved. Test feelings concoction. Taste truly overwhelming amounts of gay. Search emotions pantry for non-homosexual ingredients. Come up short. Watch Karkat’s greyish troll tongue flicker out unthinkingly to remove saucestache. Simmer.

Discover face has swiftly closed distance between yourself and comrade. Reason this is why co-troll looks as though he has swallowed a weird bug and cares seriously. Ignore hiss of warning. Consider all the ways you thought wanting to kiss someone would make you really happy, and all the ways wanting to kiss someone makes you really sad. Kiss someone. Right on the mouth. Bump noses. Reapply mouth despite co-troll’s fingers circling your wrists to the point of grade-A Chinese burn, claws digging in like needles, closing your mouth over his in a blister of spaghetti sauce and bad decisions. While still in the vicinity of his lips ask if you can kiss him, is that okay, can you? Get garbled reply about how fucking late a fucking request is that you lumpsquiddling shithoof of a, of a, John. Kiss again.

Wonder at all the sharp angry tenseness of him while trying to find how your faces are meant to fit. Reflect on Hollywood kisses and Leonardo DiCaprio’s sad working-class liplock in Titanic. Tilt his face some in your hands. Kiss his panicked mouth over and over and over until he opens up a little for you, quietly and hopelessly, and when he slings one sticky arm around your neck decide that feelings are boring and kissing is awesome. Feel amazed at how warm he is, like cradling a lit sparkler. Win at kissing. Win at everything. Nick your tongue on his teeth and breathe hard into him, awkward, still wondering, glasses pressing grooves into his cheek and nearly nauseous with love.

Proceed until oven timer blares. Be abruptly pushed away by redfaced counterpart-palhoncho. Ignore pang. Belatedly reflect that the kitchen looks like a tomato abattoir, haha! Fail to look each other in the eye at all as you take a dishtowel and mop at the spatters of spaghetti sauce. Instruct co-troll to remove lasagna from oven. Hope to hell red stains come out of t-shirt. Hope to hell red stains come out of floor.

Peel back steaming foil! Behold lasagna.

Consider lasagna.

Assert lasagna looks “weird.” Listen to co-troll’s report that it looks like mummification. Protest. Reject co-troll’s opinion that it looks like something which died before it hatched. Reject idea you have cooked a horrorterror. Claim resemblance is more that of “ghost lung.” Co-troll suggests you “put [lasagna] out of its fucking misery” before “[the lasagna] wakes up”. Argue you would both have to go and dig tiny grave in the forest. Co-troll suggests cremation so it cannot be revived through its dreamself. Co-troll suggests giving it to goddamn Harley for taxidermy. Decide to gay marry him one day, probably.

Faint with hunger, decide to taste lasagna. Retrieve two (2) forks. Judiciously load forks with equal amount of lasagna. Sternly decree you both have to eat it at the same time with no fake-outs, dude! Raise fork to mouth. After two false starts, place lasagna on tongue. Chew. Repeat chewing. When curiosity about how something can be simultaneously gritty and mushy is outweighed by your tastebuds panicking at what you’re putting them through, let mouthful slide off tongue and back into dish.

Join troll comrade at sink unit as troll comrade holds mouth under cold-water tap. Troll implies you are so unrelentingly shitty at cooking that you should have been accepted into the ranks of the bioscare division. Apologise. Troll tells you to shut your flapping maw, Egbert. Tell him hey, he sucks at cooking too! Troll tells you that being around you is like shitting out piles of broken glass into a glittering rage mosaic. Tell Karkat he should be your boyfriend.

Commit lasagna to trash can, call Kanaya and end up eating leftovers.

Serves two.