The drawing doesn't do it justice. This was a lasagna mountain, the kind of thing Richard Dreyfuss would have carved in Close Encounters if he had had lasagna instead of clay. If he had been Italian, say. This was the kind of dish that you order in certain chain restaurants where all the waitstaff gathers around your table and sings "Piggy piggy piggy" or whatnot, to your utter humiliation, unless you're a male college student, in which case it's to a round of high fives. When I hoisted myself away from the two-top, I felt like I knew what it was to be eight months pregnant. Now, I'm kind of worried about a 4th-degree perineal tear. Guess I'll know soon enough.