The Great Lasagna Caper: Finding the Thief Behind the Noodle Heist

Once upon a time, I was the proud owner of a bistro and catering business in Milford, Connecticut, called La Petite Gourmet. Sounds fancy, right? Like I was serving soufflés to royalty or something.

So, I got this gig to cater a Sweet 16 party for 15 teenagers. Piece of cake, I thought! The menu was simple: lasagna, chicken cacciatore, pizza, and a celebration cake. Saturday was my prep day, because, honestly, who doesn’t love a little weekend hustle?

Now, juggling this business while being a mom and a soon-to-be ex-wife meant my “me time” was as rare as finding Bigfoot riding a unicorn. The shop was booming, but I was knee-deep in pasta, sauces, and orders. After a grueling 18-hour day, I’d go home to my 8-year-old twin boys, who, by the way, had more energy than a double espresso. Side Note: My husband was as helpful as a chocolate teapot, having declared the shop was my business, and he wouldn’t lift a finger.

So, there I was, closing the shop at 12:30 a.m., loading food into my trusty 1965 Chrysler station wagon, and ready to stash it all in my home freezer for the big day. But on the way, I saw these giant beams of light. Alien invasion? Nope, just a new disco called The Snow Chicken. It was the 70s, and disco was the cat’s pajamas.

It was almost 1:00 a.m. My kids were snoozing at home with Mr. Helpful, and despite my exhaustion, I thought, “Why not shake a leg?” So, I parked and entered the club, where I was greeted by an 8-foot white chicken decked out like it was ready for a Vegas revue. The music pulled me in, and soon I was dancing like nobody was watching.

As Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” played and the lights dimmed at 2:00 a.m., I felt like a new woman. But then, reality called. I went to my car, opened the door, and noticed the glove box contents were strewn across the seat. Panic set in. Someone had been in my car! I turned to the back and—horror of horrors—SOMEONE HAD STOLEN ALL MY TRAYS!!!

Shocked, I cursed the food thief. The party was in 12 hours! I drove home, my brain spinning like a top, “What to do?…what to do?”

Sleep? Ha! I watched the clock until daylight. I told my husband about the disaster, but his response was the ever-helpful, “What are you going to do?”

At 7:00 AM, I dashed to the supermarket, hoping it opened early. No dice! I pressed my face against the glass like a kid at a candy store, hoping someone inside would see my desperation. My heart was pounding louder than a disco beat.

Once inside, I commandeered a cart and zoomed through the aisles like a madwoman, grabbing spaghetti sauce in jars, boxed lasagna, packaged cheese, a frozen pizza, and anything Italian. Panic was my co-pilot. “Where’s the produce? I need onions, peppers, tomatoes!”

At the meat section, I grabbed chicken like it was going out of style. Then to the bakery for their imitation bread—ciabatta, focaccia, whatever! “Cake! I need a cake!” I begged a clerk to write Sweet 16 on one while I waited. Time was ticking, and I still had to whip up a feast. My heart was in my throat, my mouth dry, wondering if I could make the 20-mile drive in time.

At checkout, I tossed everything into my car and sped back to my shop, checking my watch every nanosecond. With only a few hours left, I kicked into overdrive. I cooked, roasted, fried, and boiled, tossing everything together like a culinary tornado. It was Sunday, so at least Mr. Helpful was home watching football with the kids. This was my circus, and although I was the only clown, I was determined to make it work.

With just an hour to spare, my heart raced. “Could I make it?” I loaded the station wagon with the new trays, praying all the while. I grunted and struggled with the heavy crates of dishes, glasses, flatware, pots, and pans, trying to remember everything. I started the old engine, hoping my directions were spot on. (This was BC - Before Cell phones or GPS.)

I arrived just in time, drenched in sweat but victorious. No one noticed a thing. The host and 15 teenagers devoured everything, blissfully unaware of the chaos that led to their feast. No profit that day, but I rose to the challenge with divine help. That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t help but hum Gloria Gaynor’s anthem…“I Will Survive”.

Prologue: Prayer has been integral to my Christian life, not only during times of anxiety or fear but also in gratitude for the Blessings I’ve received. There’s always something to learn, even in stressful times. It’s a test of our character, faith, and trust that Jesus is with us.

faithful to his Word. He is my friend and my Savior.