Allegro would arrive carrying a gigantic tray of nine-layer lasagna, baked to outrageously excessive levels, with three pounds of Parmigiano and béchamel still steaming.
And Sister Potato of Lourdes Foo foo, with her hands tucked into her sleeves and a kind expression, would observe it for a moment.
—My son…
Allegro would smile proudly.
—Yes, Sister?
—You are missing turnips.
Silence.
Allegro would blink.
—Excuse me?
—Turnips.
—But… this is lasagna.
—I can see that.
—It has béchamel.
—I can see that too.
—It has Parmigiano.
—May the Lord bless you.
—It has been gratinated three times.
—God is merciful.
—But?
Sister Potato would sigh.
—My son… you are missing turnips.
And from the back of the cloister, Sister Piety of the Absurd Sorrows, who had overheard the conversation, would slowly nod:
—A few well-placed turnips can fix many things.
And Mother Superior Sister Patience would appear and say:
—Do not argue. Let everyone honor their own path.
—At the convent, turnips.
—At the castle, gratin.
And Allegro, with tears in his eyes and one hand over his heart, would whisper:
—Béchamel, like Parmigianoooooo…
And Sister Potato, smiling gently, would finish the sentence:
—…is very good, my son.
—But here…
—…you are missing turnips.
And so, for centuries, the fragile but sacred peace between Prymere Castle and the Convent of Immaculate Discretion has been preserved.
