My aunt's infamous seven-layer lasagna sits before me, the aroma of dried parsley and congealed ricotta wafting up like a challenge. I'm 10 years old again, attempting to impress her with exaggerated Italian flair during holiday gatherings. That's when I get the bright idea to "gussy up" the already overwhelming dish with a flourish, adding handfuls of shredded American cheese and globs of sour cream in a botched rendition of a Bolognese. My aunt raised an eyebrow behind her perfectly coiffed hair, and our guests politely avoided the questionable casserole. I was banned from assisting in the kitchen for the rest of my life.
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