KATHY’S LASAGNA

            Kathy wanted to be a chef, and much like a chef does, she spent a lot of time in the kitchen.  That Saturday afternoon, Kathy stood in her chef’s kitchen pretending to be a chef as she spread layers of fine tomato sauce and noodles, interspersed with cheese and exotic spices from Kaufland.  Her mother helped her by doing most of the work while Kathy supervised, much like a chef would.  One of the least rewarding steps in the cooking process was, of course, the cooking itself.  To speed things up, Kathy decided to place the small lasagna inside the microwave, and set it to cook for about 20 minutes on high.  She covered it with a small napkin to prevent any mess, and shut the door.  That was the fatal flaw in Kathy’s otherwise unfatal recipe.  Not that Kathy made it any sort of habit to cook with fatality in mind, or that any of her recipes would call for traditionally fatal ingredients, Kathy wasn’t that kind of chef.

            The lasagna bubbled away happily for the first few minutes, much like a young child would bubble away while drowning in the bathtub.  Kathy’s mom, whose name was also Kathy by no coincidence, sat in the kitchen reading a magazine titled “Home Health: Health for the Home.”  Kathy, the daughter not the mother, also sat reading an article on her phone.  She was ever fascinated by the tales of woe from rejected suitors of various celebrities.  There they sat, two generations of Kathy’s while the microwave hummed and the lasagna bubbled, when suddenly there came an entirely new noise.

            “Hey, Hey!”

            Kathy and her mom, Kathy, looked up from their respective articles.  Neither of them had spoken.

            “Hey, let me out of here!”

            Kathy approached the microwave slowly, and peered in through the array of tiny holes on the door.  The lasagna was still rotating on the glass platter, steaming and bubbling.

            “It burns in here!” the voice shouted again, “Let me out!”

            Kathy quickly stopped the microwave and popped open the door, letting the steam and mist meet the air of the kitchen.  Her mom approached just behind her, also looking curiously into the small metal cavern.  The lasagna continued to his and spit, but otherwise remained silent.

            “What was that?” Kathy asked her mom.

            “I don’t know Kathy,” said Kathy’s mom, Kathy.

            Kathy put on some oven mitts and gently lifted the pan out of the microwave, and set it down on the counter.  Then, she carefully peeled up the edge of the damp napkin and exposed the golden cheese top to the scrutiny of her eyes.  The cheese rippled and crumpled, and then a gap rose from the edge like a great pocket of hot air bursting from within.  It flapped and fluttered and wheezed and coughed.

            “Thanks lady, that’s much better!” the lasagna said.

            Kathy exchanged disbelieving looks with her mom as they stared down at the pan.

            “Hey,” the lasagna said, “neither of you guys are Italian right?”

            “U-Uh, No,” Kathy said hesitantly.

            “Good!  We have too many Italians in this country, gotta do something about that immigration am I right?  Those fools are always trying to eat me!”

            “You’re food though, food isn’t supposed to talk, it's supposed to be eaten.”

            “What kind of moron told you that?” the lasagna exclaimed with a burst of hot steam, “I’m a LASAGNA, I bet you get that B.S. from Obama!”

            Kathy’s jaw dropped, but a reasonable and anatomically correct amount, and then she looked towards her mother.

            “What’s going on?” she asked her mother, but the elder Kathy had no response.

            “Two ladies in the kitchen,” the lasagna exclaimed again, “just what I like to see, women where they belong!”

            “That’s enough you sour dish!” Kathy’s mom cried out.  “Your cheese must be all spoiled!”

            “Oh don’t talk back to me,” the lasagna began again, but Kathy’s mother covered the pan with a pot lid and ushered Kathy out of the room.

            “What do we do?” Kathy asked her mom in a hushed whisper.

            “I don’t know, I can’t believe this is happening, maybe we should throw it down the garbage disposal?”

            Kathy gasped, “wouldn’t that be murder?”

            Kathy’s mom shrugged, “what do you suggest then, we can’t have a misogynistic lasagna hanging around the house!”

            “I don’t know mom, I can’t even process what the fuck is going on!”
            “Watch your language young lady!”  

            “MOM, we have a TALKING lasagna in the kitchen!”

            Kathy’s mom picked up the phone in the living room.  Not a cell phone, but the family landline.  Most people forget those exist.  She dialed the police, and explained that there was an unwelcome guest in the home with them.  She assured dispatch that her and her daughter were both safe, and both named Kathy, and that their surprise visitor was currently in the kitchen with no plans of moving.

            A few minutes later, a knock sounded at the door.  Kathy’s mom opened the door cautiously and peered out, a police officer was standing in the doorway looking concerned, so she quickly opened the door all the way and ushered the officer in.  The policewoman introduced herself as Officer Kathy, which was indeed a coincidence.  Kathy and her mom, Kathy, escorted Officer Kathy into the kitchen where she stood and surveyed the room.

            “I don’t see any sign of an intruder ma’am,” said Officer Kathy.

            “Jeez,” said a voice, “since when did they allow women to be cops?”

            Officer Kathy froze for a second, before looking closer at the pan of lasagna on the counter. 

            “How about you make yourself useful and wipe off some of this excess grease on me!” the lasagna demanded rudely.

            “How is this possible?  This has got to be a prank,” Officer Kathy said, stepping back.

            “It’s not a prank officer, it just came out of the microwave this way,” Kathy assured her.

            The trio of Kathy’s walked out of the room, the lasagna tried to protest their departure, but the door silenced its voice like a closed door would silence the sound of someone speaking.  Officer Kathy’s radio beeped, and a near unintelligible spill of chatter poured out of it.  She reached up and pressed the radio on her shoulder and spoke into it.

            “Dispatch, this is Officer Kathy, I’m at the residence and there appears to be a  misogynistic lasagna on the kitchen counter.”

            The radio was silent for a moment before crackling to life once more.  Officer Kathy’s expression turned grave, and she nodded.

            “Yes sir,” she said as she drew her sidearm from her side arm holder thing.  She approached the kitchen door, and was about to enter when Kathy stopped her.

            “You can’t kill it, that thing’s alive!”

            “Yeah, and it's an asshole,” she replied.  “Wait here, that’s an order.”

            Officer Kathy disappeared into the kitchen leaving the other two to brace themselves waiting for the inevitable altercation.  They waited, and waited, yet nothing happened.  A moment later, Officer Kathy returned from the kitchen, gun holstered, looking shaken.  

            “I can’t do this,” she said as she slipped her badge off and tossed it to the ground.  The small metal star made a metallic clang as it struck the floor, signifying Officer Kathy’s transformation into a normal Kathy.  It was a shame, because it makes the story more confusing.  Kathy rushed into the kitchen and stared down at the smug lasagna.

            “What did you say to her, you smug lasagna?” Kathy shouted.

            “I just made her see,” said the lasagna, “which is a surprise because people of that particular ethnicity don’t have very large brains.  And by that ethnicity, I mean Italians, they keep trying to eat my kind.”

            “Well,” Kathy started, hesitating.

           “Well what punk?” The lasagna mocked.  “I’m going to run for president of this shithole and deport all Italians.”

            “You can’t do that,” Kathy said, putting her foot down though both feet were already on the ground.

            “And why’s that?”
            “Because you’re food!”  Kathy brandished a fork.

            “How dare you insult me so!  I am more than food I am-” The lasagna’s declaration was cut short by its piercing cry as Kathy’s fork dug deep into his crispy cheese top.  It howled, cheesy mouth stretching like a pizza commercial.

            “I’ll show you what we do to food here,” Kathy said as she shoved a forkful of screaming lasagna into her mouth.  It was absolutely delicious.  “How do you like that you misogynistic asshole,” she said between chews.  The lasagna couldn’t respond, it was too busy screaming.  Eventually the screams faded into gurgles and finally bubbles.  Kathy burped and set her fork down, turning to face the other two Kathy’s in the doorway.  One of them stooped low to pick up her badge, pinning it back on her chest she nodded.

            “I’ve never witnessed a braver deed,” she said, “you made me want to become an officer again.”

            Kathy nodded and wiped the sauce dripping from her chin.  The officer gave a brief salute and left their house while Kathy’s mom ordered her to do the dishes.  Not very chef-like in Kathy’s opinion, but she did make quite the mess of the lasagna.