LARRY

  The birth of Larry was a warm, tumultuous affair. It was not a birth of flesh and blood, but of simmering tomato, molten cheese, and sheets of pasta slowly yielding their firmness in the fiery heart of the Great Oven. Consciousness dawned not as a single spark, but as a slow, bubbling realization. He felt his layers fusing—the rich, hearty bolognese melding with the creamy béchamel, the sharp parmesan crisping on his surface. He was not merely a collection of ingredients; he was a singular, unified being. He was Lasagna. When the blinding light of the kitchen replaced the comforting glow of the oven, he was placed upon an altar—a vast, white ceramic plate set in the middle of a sprawling landscape of red and white checkered squares. This was his world. Two towering, silver monoliths, a Fork and a Knife, stood guard at the borders, their sharp tines and gleaming edge promising a swift, terrible end. He could hear the giants, the family whose home this was, their voices booming lik...