I Dropped the Damn Chicken Alfredo Lasagna

Dear Friend,

I dropped the damn chicken Alfredo lasagna.

Not just dropped it either. I dropped it inside the oven. There are lasagna noodles hanging from the racks, Alfredo sauce on the door, and chicken and cheese in places chicken and cheese were never meant to be. And the worst part? It smelled AMAZING.

This was a new recipe I was trying. One of those throw-this-together-on-a-quick-supper-night kinda things. Nothing fancy, but it had been baking and smelling like heaven. I took the foil off and broiled it for just a few minutes to get the top slightly browned, and it was perfect. All I had to do was get it out of the oven.

Wouldn't you know I could only find one damn pot holder. Seriously, where do the damn things go?! They don't have fucking legs, but apparently they can run away. And the one I could find wasn't even a proper oven mitt. It was one of those flat ones you're supposed to put under a hot pan on the counter.

So I grabbed that in one hand and a clean washcloth in the other and figured we'd make do. I opened the oven and started pulling that beautiful chicken Alfredo lasagna out, and Friend, I was being oh sooo careful because it smelled like heaven and I had every intention of eating entirely too much of it.

Then it tilted. Just ever so slightly forward. And apparently that was all it took for me to lose what little grip I had on the damn thing.

Now, before anybody starts wondering how a grown woman manages to dump an entire lasagna into her own oven, let me explain something. I am short. Not just regular short either. I am five whole feet AND one-quarter of an inch. That quarter matters.

Short arms. Short legs. I'm basically a munchkin. I've always struggled getting heavy things out of the oven, and frankly I don't think they make the damn things user-friendly for those of us who reached height perfection before the rest of y'all.

Think about it. That oven had just been at 500 degrees. Which means the inside of the oven door is also approximately the temperature of the surface of the sun. And I'm supposed to fold that thing down toward myself and then...do what? Lean over it? Reach across it? Balance a bubbling casserole over it with my little T-Rex arms while trying not to press my kneecaps against a 500-degree oven door?

Like seriously, how are we not supposed to burn our kneecaps off?!

Sooo yea. The chicken Alfredo lasagna smelled amazing. I'm assuming it still does, considering a good portion of it is currently inside my oven.

The kids have gone to get pizza.

And somewhere in this house, there is another perfectly good pot holder hiding like the little asshole it is.

Love,
Miss Sas ☕🌻