Lasagne Vagabonde

The gut rumbles and the hot asphalt burns the calloused soles of a man at the center of the universe on Town Square. Opportunity rings the proverbial dinner bell and the starving id nods and salivates with the triumph of a barnyard appetite: It’s Feeding Time!
  One might quibble about the etiquette involved with basic primal instincts, but when filling the gullet is the first order of survival, the encumbrance of using eating utencils is a mere afterthought. Eating pasta with one’s bare hands is simply a sign of refined gusto, and in the haste of hunger, wolfing down whatever is in front of you is Job One. Damn any reflux down the road or a later urge to regurge — carb-load it all with a shovel if you have to.
  Even if the intake threshold is surpassed with soured ricotta and stale marinara running down your stubbled chin, the calories indeed count.
  Now, the only beverage one needs to wash down this kingly feast under the scorching sun is a nice big carton of buttermilk.