When I was 12 years old, I had a fever-induced dream that I was walking through a canyon of lasagne, towers of noodles and jarred red sauce closing in on me from all sides while I scrambled to pick up brittle twigs of dry angel hair pasta before they crumbled between my fingers. I knew that, somehow, collecting up the angel hair was my way out, but it was an impossible task, multiplying before my eyes. I awoke in a cold sweat, crying, and tugged on my (then) step-sister’s arm. “Tiffany, I had a bad dream. About lasagne.” She took it … Read More