Mother of You   I am the goddess of lasagna, says my son. I think about this as I layer the marinara and ricotta over sheets of noodle, hopeful I’m able to live up to his praise.   I don’t know what makes me look up, peripheral vision, perhaps some womb-like instinct, the pull between two places in proximity - But the forms are there in the open, white-chested dancers, tawny, sloping necks, intent on food.   I leave … [Read more...]