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Lasagna By: Jamie Pashby-Rockwood Layers and layers of creamy rich sauce. Slippery, long layers of yellow bumpy noodles. As I tossed the onions like bouncing on a trampoline, my eyes started to cry. Water dripping down my face and landing on the pool of other tears. They shiver down my face like a river rushing down to get to a water fall. That’s just the beginning. As the meat rolls in like a rock smashing into the water and sizzling like magical soup it separates like friendship just barely ending. As the two bottles of spaghetti sauce bumble and tumble into the potion of magic, it steams like a hot tub with all the spices you could ever imagine. While I stack the noodles in the silver, square pan full of sauce, some of the noodles fall off. I want to taste that slippery noodle. So I place the noodle on my tongue and crunch it like a stone smashing on the gravel and separating. I immediately spit it out of my mouth because it was not cooked yet, and tasted horrible. As the lasagna goes into the steamy, scorching hot oven, we turn the light on in the oven and wait until that lasagna is done.


Poem about lasagna