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  This author's e-mail address has changed to: xanaduxf@yahoo.com
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***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references
in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter,
and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it.

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Lasagna
by shannono
shannono@iname.com


Vignette, rated PG, no spoilers, no angst, no editing, no 
nothin' ...

Summary: Cooking a favorite dish.

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Lasagna
by shannono


She couldn't decide which she enjoyed more, the smell of 
the spaghetti sauce or the crisp taste of green pepper 
chunks on her tongue.

No matter. Today wasn't day for decision-making. Today was
for her, and to her, that meant cooking and eating one of 
her favorite foods -- lasagna. The recipe her mom called 
"Cheater's Lasagna," because most of the ingredients came
ready-made from bags and cans and jars and boxes. Perfect
for a busy working woman with no time to shop and even less
to cook.

She paused in her pepper-chopping to reach across the
counter and flip on the radio for something to cook by.
Classical was fine for relaxing, but today she wanted to
sing along.

An only slightly off-key rendition of Collective Soul
followed, accompanied by the sound of the knife's edge
scraping across the cutting board. Peppers were chased
into the sauce by mushrooms, and that was all the extra 
prep work she was willing to do today.

She added a liberal amount of garlic to the big bowl of
doctored Ragu, then reached in the freezer for her handy-
dandy bag of pre-chopped, frozen onions. Ah, convenience 
foods ...

Just-defrosted ground chicken plopped onto the skillet,
sizzling lightly against the heated iron. The radio
switched to Cher singing dance music, and she bobbed her
head in time to the beat, stirring idly.

The meat separated into tiny bits, joined by a handful of
onion bits. Smoke rose from the skillet, sucked away by the
vent fan that burred softly in the background, muffled by 
the sounds of cooking and pop music.

The meat and onion were added to the sauce, and a couple
spoonfuls fell from the ladle into the bottom of the pan.
Dry, flat pasta straight from the box followed, neatly 
placed so that the noodles lined up like soldiers atop 
the red liquid.

She dumped a whole carton of cottage cheese into a bowl 
and added some water, stirring until it was thin enough.
The white lumps were spread across the noodles unevenly,
then topped with a layer of pre-shredded mozzarella, 
straight from the bag, and a shake or two of grated 
Parmesan from a can.

She repeated the well-practiced moves, watching her
creation rise in layers until the pan was full. A last
dusting of cheeses finished the job, and she covered 
the dish with foil and slid it into the waiting oven.

The counters cleaned, her hands washed and dried, she
crossed the floor again, turning down the sounds of 
Ricky Martin as she picked up the phone. Seconds later,
a bored-sounding but oh-so-familiar voice answered, and
she smiled.

"What are you doing for dinner, Mulder?"

==========END==========