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She had developed a wicked lasagna. Mornings after, the lasagna pan was as empty as the Chianti bottle or bottles. On this particular evening, she threw a salad together avocado, feta cheese, a few scallions, red leaf lettuce, lemon juice, and a yummy Portuguese olive oil that Ann-in-the-deli had recommended. Ann was middle aged with a red face and a bad leg.
"What do you want with it?" "Lasagna." "Lasagna always lasagna if not goulash. Well, we tried that last night." She thought of that mildly humiliating moment when his face had wrinkled and cringed. The face had crinkled like an old newspaper in the muscles of a palm. She, his heroine of all these years, had been regarded with disapproval.
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