The New York Times just sent out an email newsletter advertising a few recipes from their NYT Cooking page (which is not part of the regular New York Times subscription and is something I’m salty about). The newsletter post was titled “16 Dishes to Make for Someone Going Through a Hard Time” and featured an image of a fat, meaty lasagna.

Immediately, I felt a wave of disgust as I remembered the last time someone made me a lasagna when I was “going through a hard time.” A few days after my mom passed away, some kind Samaritans took it upon themselves to cook for me and my family. Except they never asked us if this would be helpful.

All I knew was a truly massive lasagna was at my front door. Then I saw a car driving away from my house, as if death was contagious.

This was the second time we received food deliveries. The first time we were touched by the effort the people in our community expended to help us in our time of need. Technically we had every ability to feed ourselves. Takeout and delivery were definitely things at this time, and we had no problems ordering for ourselves, but we appreciated the thought.

But then, as the days dragged by, and we received large portions of increasingly revolting casseroles from well-intentioned but culinarily challenged suburbanites, this gift began to feel like an obligation. We were obligated to graciously accept food that we did not ask for and did not like. We would have to eat it despite not wanting to or risk coming off as ungrateful. Then there was the process of storing the food, cleaning the dishware, and returning the dishes to the rightful owner.

I don’t remember why the food stopped arriving the first time, but I think we just reached the end of the charity. The people who set up this food prep and delivery service didn’t plan for a health crisis that would extend beyond a few weeks, so we were soon without tuna casseroles. As my mom’s health only worsened and it was clear she would not survive her illness, it was a relief to not have to think about stomaching so much baked cheese and canned enchilada sauce.

I think there was a note on the lasagna, but I don’t remember what it said. What I do remember is suddenly, a lasagna big enough to feed sixteen people was in my kitchen, and as it was just me, my dad, and my sister, it was on us to finish the whole thing. I have a thing about food waste, and I hate letting leftovers go bad. They were less concerned and had already made dinner plans.

In addition to this giant lasagna taking up space on my counter, my family had received tons of unsolicited food deliveries. Cookies, donuts, a fruit basket, candy, and even an entire cheesecake occupied our fridge. We didn’t ask for any of these things.

I feel bad for the person who made that lasagna. I don’t know who she was, as she drove away too quickly before I could check her identity, but I know that making lasagna is a ridiculous ordeal. Personally, I think it’s one of the dumbest foods ever. A ton of work goes into making this pasta casserole that is basically a less delicious version of moussaka. If it’s not made correctly, it’s like eating layers of paste and powdered parmesan, and it sits in your stomach like a brick.

I’m sure the woman who made that lasagna for my family did her best, but unfortunately, this lasagna was not good. A good lasagna is made with love, and this lasagna was made with the heavy emotions that come from watching an acquaintance experience a tragedy and hoping that it wouldn’t happen to you. She prepared a lasagna that could be consumed by a cafeteria’s worth of third graders, and my family was down a person.

And so that night, I ate as much lasagna as I could before my nausea set in, and I could no longer look at it without feeling sick. I washed my plate and walked away, thinking how much I didn’t want to go through this process again. I didn’t want this charity that created a new mental load for me in addition to everything I was already dealing with. I was already devastated from the loss of my mom and the gaping hole it left in my family, but now I also had to find room in my crowded fridge for fourteen servings of goopy lasagna.

Luckily, fate helped me out that night. The moment I walked away, either a gust of wind blew that lasagna off the counter, or my fat-ass lab, Beau, decided he was tired of eating only dog food and knocked that lasagna to the floor. I came back into the kitchen, and he was gleefully scarfing as much lasagna as he could, Garfield-style.

The lasagna was completely ruined, and all I felt was relief. Relief that now all I had to do was clean it up and throw it away. I wasn’t going to have to eat this sub-par casserole that did little more than remind me of how wrong everything in my life was.

My family did some searching, and we eventually found the well-meaning people responsible for the food deliveries, and we asked them to stop. They listened to us, and no more casseroles arrived at our door.

I realize that to some people, I sound like an ingrate. I should have just appreciated that some people were nice enough to want to make sure I had a good meal at the end of the day. But that wasn’t what I or my family needed. We didn’t need a ton of flower deliveries and casseroles. What we actually needed was help cleaning the house, or walking the dogs, or having someone to talk to so we weren’t stuck in our heads all day.

And if people had asked me, I would have told them what would have been helpful. Some people may try to give what they are able to, but if I have the choice between receiving gross food, or nothing at all, I’d rather get nothing. At least then I don’t have to worry about washing and returning someone’s casserole tray.

So if you have a friend who is going through a hard, maybe because they were recently sick, or they just had a baby, or they just lost a loved one, just send them a gift card. $10 to Starbucks is a lot more useful than the $20+ you would have spent for ingredients anyway. Or, even crazier, check if your friend needs company, and then bring the food over and actually spend time with them while they eat. Even a terrible lasagna tastes better when its maker is genuinely trying to check in on you.

And to the person who dropped that lasagna off at my door, I appreciate that you tried to do something nice, but you didn’t know anything about me, or else you would have saved yourself a lot of work. At least my dog appreciated the meal.