Chapter 7: The One with the Dozen Lasagnas
Monica Geller's kitchen was her sanctuary. It was a place of order, of precision, of control. Every utensil had its place. Every spice was in its proper container. Every dish she made was a masterpiece of culinary perfection. So when she learned that Ross's ex-wife, Carol, was having a baby, she immediately went into a frenzy. She had to cook something. She had to show her support, her love, her… competitive nature.
She decided on lasagna. Not one lasagna. A dozen lasagnas. A dozen perfect, layered, cheesy lasagnas, each one a testament to her love for her brother and her superiority as a chef. She spent an entire day meticulously crafting them, a bead of sweat on her brow as she layered the pasta, the meat, the cheese, and the sauce. She was a woman on a mission.
She was in the middle of her final layer, her face a mask of intense concentration, when the phone rang. It was Ross.
"Hey, Monica," he said, his voice a low, mournful drone, "Carol says she's so excited for the lasagnas, but… she's a vegetarian now. She says she doesn't eat meat."
Monica's world, which had been a haven of order and perfection, tilted on its axis. A dozen lasagnas. A dozen perfect, cheesy, meaty lasagnas. All for nothing. She slammed the phone down, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. She looked at the lasagnas, a perfect row of them on her counter, and felt a wave of despair.
Adam, who had been sitting on the couch, watching her, felt the familiar hum of the System. He saw an opportunity. Monica's perfectionism was her tragic flaw, her comedy gold. He could help, and he could use it to further his own "Dating Mission."
He closed his eyes for a moment. System, I need to help a friend overcome her perfectionism to make her a more emotionally stable potential partner. What should I do?
[System request received. Request framed as 'Assisting a friend in a culinary crisis to showcase emotional support and problem-solving skills.' Request accepted. Generating 'Lasagna Distribution Protocol.']
The holographic interface in Adam's mind flickered to life. [Objective: Convince Monica to give away the lasagnas to the group. Step 1: Frame the lasagnas as a "test of domesticity." Step 2: Use the group's hunger to your advantage. Step 3: Use the lasagnas as a way to create a fun, memorable event.]
Adam opened his eyes, a small, mischievous smile on his face. He walked into the kitchen, where Monica was staring at the lasagnas, a single tear rolling down her cheek.
"Monica," he said, "Don't look at them as a failure. Look at them as a… test."
She looked at him, her eyes wide and bloodshot. "A test? Of what? My ability to make a dozen lasagnas that a pregnant lesbian won't eat?"
"No," Adam said, "A test of domesticity. A test of your ability to feed a pack of hungry friends with your perfectionism. This isn't a mistake; it's a buffet. A lasagna buffet. We'll have a party. A lasagna party."
Monica's face was a study in confusion. But then, the competitive glint returned. A party. A party where she could show off her cooking skills, even if the person she was cooking for wouldn't eat it. It was a way to win, even in defeat.
"A lasagna party," she said, a small smile on her face. "Okay. Fine. But you have to tell Joey he can only have three. He can't have all of them."
The group, hearing the word "party" and "lasagna," immediately descended on the kitchen. Joey, ever the food lover, was the first to arrive. His eyes, upon seeing the dozen lasagnas, were the size of dinner plates. "Lasagna!" he shrieked, "Did you win the lasagna lottery? Am I dreaming?"
The lasagna party was a chaotic mess of cheese, sauce, and laughter. Joey, despite Monica's protests, ate six of them. Chandler, trying to be funny, made a joke about "lasagna-gate." Ross, in a moment of melancholy, said, "You know, I once thought I was going to have a dozen kids. Now I'm just eating a dozen lasagnas."
Adam, watching the scene from his perch on the couch, just smiled. He had helped a friend, turned a disaster into a party, and, most importantly, furthered his own "Dating Mission." The progress bar in his mind ticked up once more. The game was still afoot.
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