Chicken Sausage Lasagna and a Tiramisu

Sausage and Mushroom Lasagna

On Sunday, I cooked away my day in the kitchen, stealing bites of the lasagna I was preparing for Munchie Monday. After an early hour of gathering groceries at an empty Trader Joe's, I made my best effort to fix myself with a steaming mug of stove-top espresso. I planned everything precisely. The leftover espresso needed to be chilled, so things started with the pasta rolling. The flour and eggs slowly amalgamated on the cold pastry marble top and then had to be set aside to rest beneath a damp towel. After the dough had gained some kind of flexibility, it could be cut into quarters, flattened out and rolled through the pasta machine. The handle creaked and the dough re-appeared as long flat noodles. Moments later, eight uneven, yet immaculately soft sheets of lasagna hung on a wooden pasta dryer awaiting the many layers of sauce and cheese that would come. I then turned to wildly whisking egg yolks with some coffee over a bubbling pot of water, pasteurizing them to avoid anyone from my work falling ill--mostly to avoid future awkward moments with a colleague who might choose to hate me for giving them a food-born illness. The ladyfingers were dipped in espresso and layered--though there could have been many more. The egg yolks were heated and mixed with mascarpone and sugar and gently folded with a whipping of egg whites and sugar. The lady fingers were layered with this angelic layer of a sweet cloud. A day of refrigeration, and not only would I be everyone's best friend, but also the provider of much needed mid-day after lunch caffeine. And then came the lasagna. A quick sautee of mushrooms and onion with olive oil, oregano, marjoram, and basil; then the chicken sausage and garlic; then, after sweeping out the juices and adding the wine, I realized that chicken doesn't just taste better with white wine, but it also looks better. I had decided to use the elegant bottle of two-buck-chuck...cabernet savignon. I will not do so again. Purple chicken. Purple chicken! Oh damn. Okay, so I added a heaping load of marinara and then another. Layer by layer, the purple chicken disappeared into the folds of the lasagna, hiding behind heavenly white layers of ricotta and mozzerella. Forty-five minutes later, I let the melted cheeses and eggplant-skinned chicken jump into my mouth. A bolt of delicious herbed chicken danced on my tongue and finished with a blanket of mozzerella stuck with parmesan. Surely, Monday would be an excellent day. I would have a feast for lunch.