As of this friday, I have officially become one of the many diagnosed with a "flu-like" illness. Since I am now essentially in forced isolation for a week, I have a lot more time on my hands. This doesn't help the fact that I don't have any will to live left, but well, at least I have TONS of time on my hands. It's times like this, when I'm sick and just want to curl up and die, that I really really wish I hadn't picked a college so far away from home. Needless to say, I would kill for a little bit of my mom's home cooked anything.
But, well, she's 13 time zones away, so I decided to help myself. I decided to whip out my famous lasagna with soup, essentially the same as regular lasagna, but instead of cheese I use condensed soup. I know it sounds like it would be a gooey mess, but hey, you would be surprised what a little cornflour can do. Also, my tonsils are swollen, so a little lumpy lasagna sounded great. So I dragged myself out of bed, defrosted, washed and assembled the requisite ingredients, heated the oven, set the timer to an hour, and flopped back in bed.
Usually, the entire apartment starts smelling like soup within the first ten minutes, but it had been about 40 minutes and I realized that I still couldn’t smell it. It was weird, though I just assumed the fact that I had tissue papers stuffed in both my nostrils was contributing to the whole lack of smell. Every inch of me was hurting, so I really didn't want to have to get up if I didn't need to. I assumed, as the weak often do, that everything was fine.
Another 15 minutes go by and I remember that if overcooked, the thing starts to taste like my famous burnt lasagna, so I decided to go the kitchen to check on the dish that should have been bubbling right about now, my stomach screaming in hunger.
So I walk in. The oven light was on, the timer had another 5 minutes.
The dish was sitting, untouched, on the kitchen counter.
Damn you, Nyquil.
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