Pinkerton :
Lasagna is an absolute abomination masquerading as a comfort food. Don’t get me wrong—each ingredient on its own? Fine. Pasta? Great. Cheese? Divine. Sauce? Sure, throw it on something deserving. But stacking it all into this unholy, steaming brick of confusion? That’s where we’ve crossed a line. It’s not a meal—it’s a culinary Frankenstein, layers upon layers of overconfidence and dairy-based sin. No food should require geological surveying tools to understand where it begins and ends. It’s a lasagna, not the Grand Canyon.
What really grinds my gears is how people revere it like it’s sacred. “Oh, Grandma’s lasagna!” they say, like she was some kind of prophet of starch. No. She was just a nice lady with a casserole dish and a dangerous disregard for proportion. Have you ever tried to eat a tidy portion of lasagna? You can’t. You carve into it like you’re mining ore, and what ends up on your plate is a steaming, collapsed mess of goo that barely resembles food. It’s disrespectful to every individual ingredient involved. That cheese didn’t age for months just to be suffocated between soggy noodles and acidic marinara.
And don’t even get me started on leftovers. People act like lasagna “gets better the next day,” but that’s just Stockholm Syndrome. It congeals into a solidified slab of regret that dares you to reheat it into something edible again. There is nothing holy about a food that needs both a knife and emotional support to eat. Lasagna isn’t a dish—it’s a warning. A symbol of what happens when ambition, carbs, and molten dairy are allowed to spiral unchecked. If culinary sins had a mascot, it would be lasagna, draped in cheese and smug certainty, daring us to keep pretending this is fine.
2025-05-31 01:04:07