The warm vegetarian lasagna sat on the top of the stove cooling and filling the room with the intense smell of its essence. I had pulled it from the oven about 10 minutes earlier and had walked over to check to see if it was ready to be cut and served. 

“Will you cut the lasagna?” I said.

Actually, let me be honest about the way that I phrased it. It wasn’t a question and it wasn’t gentle, it was blunt and a clear line.

“You have to cut the lasagna, I don’t cut lasagna”

“What?” he asked with a laugh. “Why?” he laughed with a question mark in his laughter. 

“Well, you see, it is simple. Lasagna simply doesn’t respect me.” I fired back quickly while pulling out silverware and plates.

“Now, I need to know more” he responded as he picked up a knife and walked toward the pan of lasagna. 

He stopped and turned to look at me.

“Well, you know when you cut lasagna, it doesn’t respect your boundaries that you are attempting to create and hold. You cut it, it laughs at you and merges right back into the shape that it wants to be. I have yet to be able to get lasagna to respect my boundaries unless it is cold and that just isn’t how I want to eat it.”

He laughed and shook his head.

“I am serious. Even when it is served and on your plate, it still won’t respect boundaries. You cut it, you try to put it on your fork and it flows all over the place.”

“So, why do you make it?” he asked.

“Well, I love it and I am not going to try to change it because I love it, but I am also not going to engage with it like that. I don’t need to be the one who cuts it, even if I am the one who lovingly makes it.”

“That is brilliant” he said softly as he looked down at the lasagna and started to cut. I stared at him as he cut, knowing that he was processing what I had said and allowing it to marinate in his soul, just like the lasagna marinated in the juices of itself.