Date 10 - The Many Layers of Constantine's Lasagna

Constantine and I were standing outside in the cold making plans for our next date (See Abbreviated with Constantine) when he asked if he could make me lasagna. From scratch. I asked if I could bring something and then remembered that I have an unnecessary amount of ground meat in my freezer. So instead of giving him time to consider my question and tell me what he would like me to bring, I announced that I could bring meat. Constantine informed me that he usually makes veggie lasagnas. I didn’t know that was a thing. If I had thought about it, I’m sure I would have realized that you could make a lasagna without meat in it. I mean, if you absolutely had to. But that hadn’t crossed my mind, so I was a little stunned at how stupid and presumptuous my offer of meat was.

Constantine handled that faux pas graciously and offered to incorporate my ground bison into his lasagna. We hugged and went our separate ways, and I had a little more than a day to dwell on it.

Luckily, I was also able to dwell on the fact that I would be seeing where he lived, which is a whole other fascinating kettle of fish. Plenty of dwelling to do. Which is a great term, because sometimes it kind of feels like you’re living inside of a particular worry – as though you’ve moved in and started unpacking boxes and hung one picture on the wall, but aren’t sure if you really like it there or not.

So aside from overthinking, I made it through the intervening day unscathed. I had texted my girls to let them know the address of where I was going and confirmed that if I didn’t make it to volleyball that night, they would call the police to retrieve whatever pieces of me were still lying about. I had packed my volleyball gear, in case dinner lasted until game time (9pm). I stopped at a nearby liquor store on the way over to Constantine’s house and grabbed a bottle of wine. It had a strange label which reminded me of the meandering tangential nature of our conversations. It was also a malbec, which I love.



Made for winter

I struggled to find parking because there was a hockey game at a nearby venue. It was a cold walk to Constantine’s place in my heels. I buzzed and he let me in. I took a guess at which floor his apartment was on, because there was no inherent logic to the numbering system. My guess was right and he poked his head into the hallway as I walked up.

We hugged a greeting and I walked in to his strange, clean and condensed apartment. It smelled like fresh pasta and cut peppers. That is to say, delicious.

I was introduced to his cat, Horatio, a large, grey, long haired fellow who loves zip ties, plays fetch and apparently loathes me. Constantine put the kettle on and I sat with Horatio on the floor, petting him and chatting with Constantine who was in the kitchen adding my bison meat to a pan on the stove. Perhaps the smell of cooking meat drove Horatio into a sort of feline frenzy and he attacked. Constantine seemed shocked and mortified. I wondered how to extricate myself from Horatio’s claws without hurting him. Sensing the potential for further attacks, and also feeling a lingering chill from the walk, I grabbed wool socks out of my purse (chalk up another win for enormous purses!) and pulled them on. This proved to be a very prudent move, as not long thereafter Horatio launched himself at my foot but could not penetrate through to skin despite his significant best efforts.

When the kettle boiled, I was presented with several tea options; one of which was Earl Grey and thus the decision was made.

After striking out with the cat, I turned to Constantine’s book shelf to snoop. I recognized a number of them from my days working in a bookstore, others from our discussions over the past three dates, and a few that are in my own collection. I was really enthused to see The Professor and the Madman, Where the Sidewalk Ends, The Hobbit and my other all-time favourite Pilgrim. Constantine noticed that I was engrossed, and he remembered that he had a surprise for me. Said surprise was a book of his essays that he had published independently. It was hardcover, smelled like new books and had his name on it, which was interesting because I’d only gotten so far as his first name and last initial. I later found out that it also had my name in it, on the dedication page. Amazing.

We talked about many things, we discussed the bizarre architecture of his apartment, which features strange little alcoves, holes in some of the walls, odd angles and probably at least one hidden door. Constantine layered the pasta with vegetables galore and saucy bison meat and cheese while I wandered about unhelpfully. He pointed out items of interest and handed me several of his favourite children’s books to read. I cackled with delight through Edward Gorey’s The Epiplectic Bicycle which was bizarre and splendid. The Great Paper Caper by Oliver Jeffers had fun art, and Duck, Death and the Tulip was sublime. Technically a children’s book, it was heart-rending and I actually cried reading it. Admittedly, I am a total sap and will cry in any number of children’s books (Don’t even get me started on The Giving Tree!) but I was devastated and moved and then I had to pretend I wasn’t crying on a date in this lovely man’s home. I think I hid it, but I am not confident.

Regrets, but HRH is busy
posing for a new pound note.
Next time, though!

When the lasagna was in the oven, he joined me in my wanderings, explaining various things, like the framed documents on his feature wall. Their number included a jaywalking ticked he’d received, a report card sprinkled with Ds, his University degree, and a letter from a royal Lady-in-Waiting announcing that sadly, Her Royal Highness would not be able to attend his yard sale.  

Constantine does not have a timer on his oven, or if he does, he refuses to use it. He says he just smells when things are done. I smell when they’re overdone and the firemen come knocking. But he was right. When he checked the oven, his lasagna was perfectly cooked with cheese browned and bubbling on the top. He took it out and left it to cool and congeal a bit. He even used the word congeal, which sounds vile most of the time, but savored strongly of lasagna when he said it.

My stomach started making odd noises even before we ate. Some of them could have been the grunts of distaste that Horatio made when he was near me.

Constantine does not have a table. I put my plate in my lap and my mug of tea on a sideboard. In his defense, he is still settling in, and I did not mind.

We are coming to invade your lasagna!

I took a steadying breath and began to eat. Hiding among the delicious homemade noodles and the bison meat were enormous and menacing vegetables. Mushrooms are one of my few exceptions, so I had no qualms whatsoever with them making an appearance. The carrots, onions, spinach and peppers were a bit more daunting. But I decided to be a grown up and just eat them – less painful by far than trying to explain that I am a grown-ass woman who picks the vegetables out of everything and only manages to stave off scurvy with the occasional apple or grapefruit. It tasted wonderful, though the vegetably texture was unnerving. I ate it all. Adulting.

Constantine put some of the leftover lasagna into a glass Tupperware container for me, noting that I will have to bring it back and visit with him again. Clever move.

We talked about dinosaurs and bake-offs and flavour thesauri, and listened to a song about the sun. It was thenabouts that I realized I was late for volleyball.

They have this newfangled device which can be used
to tell time! O brave new world that has such wonders in't!


I probably said something profane and alarming and dashed to the door, feeling like a total jerk. I fired off a text to my friend Liz to tell her not to call the police, and that I was on my way. (In my state of total panic, I actually texted "In my way!" which said it all, really.) I peeled off my big woolie socks, jumped into my heels, grabbed my leftover lasagna, purse, scarf, mittens, sweater and jacket (yeah, there’s no such thing as a quick exit in winter), hugged Constantine “goodbye” and sprinted down the stairs and out into the snow. Running in heels on icy winter sidewalks is about as stupid as you can get.

The snow was really coming down by this point, and the roads were treacherous. I made it to my game about 15 agonizing minutes late. Constantine had texted me “Sorry” and I replied to say that I was the idiot who had lost track of time and then bolted out the door. I had also forgotten my-his book.

He didn’t reply, but I was playing volleyball and could only worry about it intermittently between rallies and jokes and the congenial razzing of my teammates.