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At 12:45 p.m. on Jan. 4, 2009, I was beckoned to follow a bright, white light I’d never in my life beheld.

At least, I don’t recall there being a light in the refrigerator, behind all that leftover turkey, stuffing, spaghetti, meatballs and sausage.

This alarmingly bare, post-holiday sight was a mere prelude to the week’s bombshells, confirming that an economic disaster is now gripping Greensboro. In other news about to land with a thud! on my doorstep:

Rocky Scarfone, our local Donald Trump, who in fatter days ran Much, home to fire dancers and an edgy, dangerously trendy crowd that included Keith Holliday and Zack Matheny, is starting a new Elm Street venture, Zen. I don’t care if it does serve sushi and 20 kinds of sake with infused flavors. We’re doomed.

Meanwhile, the state’s Employment Security Commission computer system crashed Sunday night when 74,000 people tried to file their weekly unemployment claims, and then crashed again Monday, when 55,000 people filed. The good news: The state is adding a new server to deal with the volume, and, if needed, take sushi and sake orders, too.

So here, just as I am about to rest my case, that things can’t get any worse, the freezer starts making this grievous sound that spooks the cat. Oh, no. The ice maker is working.

“Is that a bad thing?” asks my husband, obviously confused about the mechanics of home economics.

Yes, my friend, that is a very bad thing. Allow me to explain. The functioning of the ice maker indicates the availability of freezer space. Which, in turn, indicates that the three women who keep our familial army marching — Sara Lee, Michelina and, in the case of the school kids, Mrs. Paul — have left the house.

We lack microwavable provisions. We cannot “tear corner to vent,” or “remove plastic before placing in oven.” We are a conquered people in a new dark age, and will be forced to speak in a tongue deader than Latin.

We will thaw, saute and baste, wielding such barbarian implements as meat thermometers, tenderizers and cleavers.

Ah, but in the words of Winston Churchill, we have nothing to fear but fear itself. And leftovers. What do we do with the leftovers?

And that is when the bulb comes on: The solution to this recession, the white light beckoning in the tunnel.

It was the after-school staple of my childhood, Edie Manzi’s mother’s spaghetti pie, delicious, filling, perpetually available, stick-to-your ribs, twice-baked sustenance always ready on the counter at my friend’s house.

But that was 40 years ago, and I’ve forgotten her phone number, let alone her recipe. I try Googling spaghetti pie, but it calls for adding a pound of ricotta cheese. Not only is this expensive, completely defeating the purpose, but it doesn’t sound like Vera Manzi’s recipe, which likely would use a more humble Velveeta.

So I call the nearest member of the Greatest Generation. What I need, I explain, is to make a kind of a hash. ...

“HASH?” my mother repeats. “I thought you stopped running around with that crowd in eighth grade.”

A spaghetti hash.

“Why don’t you just go to Food Lion?” my mom says. “They’ve got a 10-for-$10 special on Michelina’s. I read it on the Bargain Blog at YOUR paper’s Web site.”

I see. Certain members of the Greatest Generation don’t practice what they preach. Left on my own, I bake the spaghetti pie with shredded taco cheese on hand. Everyone eats it. I then announce I am going to try it again with the rest of the leftovers. Suzzy, 10, breaks down in tears.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” she says, “but when you said 'pie’ that wasn’t what we expected. We thought 'pie’ meant something good.”

I need to find Vera Manzi. To tell her about the 10-for-10 at Food Lion.

Contact Lorraine Ahearn at 373-7334 or lorraine.ahearn@news-record.com