My neighbor, Linda, is a lovely woman, but her cooking is an absolute disaster. For months, the smell of burnt garlic and over-boiled cabbage has wafted from her kitchen into mine. I’ve always been polite, nodding and smiling when she talks about her “experimental” recipes, but inside, I’ve been praying she never invites us over for dinner.
That changed last Tuesday. Linda knocked on my door with a beaming smile and a tray covered in foil. “I made my famous spicy seafood lasagna!” she chirped. “I made far too much, so I thought you and Mark would enjoy a break from cooking.”
I took the tray, my stomach already doing a nervous flip. “How kind of you, Linda! We’ll certainly… try it.”
When my husband, Mark, got home, he saw the tray and his face fell. “Is that from Linda?” I nodded grimly. We sat at the table, staring at the lasagna. It looked gray. It smelled like a harbor at low tide.
“We have to eat some,” I whispered. “She’s going to ask how it was.”
Mark took a brave bite, chewed for three seconds, and his eyes bulged. “It’s… crunchy,” he wheezed. “Why is seafood lasagna crunchy?”
I took a bite and immediately regretted it. It tasted like sand and old lemon peels. We couldn’t do it. We ended up scraping the portions into the trash and hiding the rest of the tray in the back of the fridge, planning to dispose of it later. We ordered a pizza instead, feeling guilty but relieved.
The next morning, I heard a frantic knocking. It was Linda. She looked pale. “Did you eat the lasagna?” she gasped.
“Oh, Linda, it was… very unique!” I said, trying to be tactful.
“Don’t tell me you ate it!” she cried. “I just realized I accidentally used the container of crushed seashells I was drying out for my craft project instead of the breadcrumbs! And the ‘shrimp’ was actually a bag of frozen bait my husband left in the freezer!”
I froze. Mark, hearing the commotion, came to the door. Linda looked like she was about to faint. “I came as fast as I could to stop you!”
Mark looked at her, then at me, then back at Linda. “Well,” he said with a straight face, “that explains the crunch. Honestly, Linda, we thought it was just a very bold texture choice.”
We all burst out laughing. Linda was so mortified that she promised never to cook for us again. Instead, she took us out for a proper dinner at a local Italian place. Now, whenever I smell something strange coming from next door, I don’t worry. I just check to see if Linda has started a new seashell craft. It’s a disaster, surely, but at least now we’re all in on the joke.
