Mom's infamous seven-layer lasagna haunted the depths of my arteries as I stared blankly at last Friday's leftovers on the fridge door. A faded recipe card, scribbling reminders in an old Sharpie, had slipped beneath my feet earlier. Forgotten pizza delivery receipts now scattered across the counter added insult to this kitchen's descent into chaos. I picked the remnants of a once-tempting feast from the container: a rubbery crust coated in that sauce I was sure came from jars, not my actual grandma.
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