Mother and Lasagna

It was a curious irony that a child who once refused to eat would grow up to have a profession built around food. Yet, looking back, he realized his heart had always belonged to it.He could sense dishes without tasting them—reaching the peak of satisfaction through their aromas alone. He calculated ingredients in his mind, swaying recklessly along the fine lines of recipes, like an acrobat finding balance between precision and instinct.

He had learned to feel, with careful attention, the emotions a dish could evoke in someone—and that food was meant to speak to a community. He had chosen to live without words, to touch people’s lives through this path. Maybe, from that moment on, everything would start to move in the right direction.

Because he had learned to cut away his melancholy with his knife, and to understand the spark every taste awakened in the body through the only feeling he believed to be truly sincere: his mother’s lasagna. There was no other dish in the world that held so much love, and everyone deserved to encounter a meal born of such emotion.

Its scent made him feel as though he were standing in an endless field that embraced him. The sauce’s deep red hue seemed borrowed from the delicate blush of his mother’s cheeks—no other shade could have adorned the lasagna so tenderly. That color pulled him back into his childhood; every layer of pasta felt like a warm blanket laid over him, whispering that every thought and desire running through his mind could come true.

The rich aroma of minced meat rising with each bite reminded him of life itself—its spices carrying a faint sting of pain, yet every taste, at its core, was sweet and precious. That feeling, the one he had built his entire life upon, kept guiding him forward.

It had never been about being the best—he knew that well. In moments when he dragged himself down, he would lose himself in the scents of the flavors he dreamed of chasing.“Everyone can be good,” he would whisper to himself, trying to cleanse his heart of ambition. Yes, everyone could be good. But standing alone at the peak of success was no great triumph.

He smiled to himself as he looked at the table where the people who loved him sat. Carefully, he took the scorching hot dish from the oven that filled the room with comforting aromas. Placing it on the table, he felt joy flood his chest as he met the bright, curious eyes waiting before him.

“Of course everyone can be good,” he murmured. Then, lowering his gaze, he studied the perfect creation before him.“But not everyone can carry this feeling.”

As laughter and conversation filled the room, and they all ate the lasagna together, the house warmed with a special kind of tenderness. He etched that moment deep into his memory—the moment that reminded him again and again why he existed. And in his heart, he whispered countless thanks to God—for his mother, and for the feelings she had given him.