The oven was already on.
The kind of day where you roast something just to feel it—that warm, sighing kind of heat. I wasn’t aiming for anything fancy. Just trying to use up the squash before it turned on me. But I remembered Her Highness had a version. Lasagna, I think? With ricotta and sage and stock. The recipe had been folded inside an old Martha magazine for years, right between the gingerbread stable and some article about forced bulbs. I never made it. Until that Tuesday. Until it got too quiet.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s butternut squash lasagna is a layered prayer for patience. You roast the squash—big chunks, golden on the edges. You mix the ricotta with cream and egg yolks like you mean it. Then you fry sage in butter until it goes crisp and weirdly fragile. Stack the whole thing with cooked noodles (fresh, if you’re brave), let it bubble under Parmesan until it gets loud. It’s thoughtful. It’s deliberate. It’s a dish that waits for no one and still gets applauded.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have fresh mozzarella. Used bagged shreds from the freezer. They clumped like damp wool but still melted, eventually. I skipped the homemade noodles—Her Highness can judge me all she likes. Store-bought worked. Mae said the sage smelled “like a witch’s purse” so I added extra. Didn’t mash the squash completely either. Left some chunks whole, like little golden pillows. I liked the idea of surprise.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I roasted the squash while Mae read aloud from some ridiculous article about vampire squids. She didn’t help cook, just hovered. The olive oil hissed when I tossed the cubes. I overdid the salt, but I always do when I’m distracted.
I was using the green Pyrex again. The one from college, the one that’s seen more lasagna than it deserves. The one that survived the broiler incident with the plastic spoon.
The ricotta mixture came together fast. Too fast. I didn’t trust it. Stirred twice as long just to be sure. The sage butter—god, the smell. Dad’s hands, again. Garlic and lemon and something burnt into memory. I tasted the butter off the spoon. Just stood there, eyes closed, listening to the heat hum.
I layered wrong. I know I did. Forgot a noodle. Doubled the squash in one corner. Didn’t care. The top was too pale when I checked it, so I left it in until the cheese went from golden to borderline blackened. Burnt the edge on purpose. I needed the bite.
A Few Things I Learned
Cold ricotta is stubborn. You have to coax it.
Sage turns from holy to bitter in seconds. Watch it.
Even when you think the layers are uneven—it still holds.
Burnt cheese is a kind of therapy if you let it be.
What I Did With the Extras
We didn’t use plates.
Mae grabbed forks and we ate it standing up, the pan between us on the counter. I burned my tongue and said nothing. She picked out the blackest bits of cheese and called them “lasagna bark.” We laughed. I think that mattered more than anything.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. But only if the kitchen feels too clean. It needs a little smoke.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The heat held longer than I expected. The dish stayed warm even after we stopped talking. The kind of food that lingers. Not in flavor. In feeling.
If you’re after something more chaotic, I made a mushroom and leek mess last winter that nearly took the stove down. Still worth it.
FAQs
Yeah. but the noodles get a little sleepy after. still good. just softer. like next-day emotions.
Nope. I’ve used dried. once even used rosemary because the sage had turned. didn’t get complaints.
Then you probably won’t love this. but I’ve stirred in cottage cheese before. and once? cream cheese. don’t tell Her Highness.
You can. but why would you? it’s the crispy crown. the burnt bit. the reason I left it in too long.
Honestly? roasting the squash takes the longest. everything else is just layering and hoping. I’d say an hour and a half if you’re moving slow like I was.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart French Toast
- Martha Stewart Key Lime Pie
- Martha Stewart Lasagna Recipe
- Martha Stewart Vegetable Lasagna
Martha Stewart Butternut Squash Lasagna
Description
Creamy, burnt-edged, and emotionally reckless—like I was that night.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Start with the Heat: Roasted the squash at 425°F until soft and a little singed. Edges going gold, middle collapsing a bit. Let it sit while I stared at the counter.
- Mix the Creamy Stuff: Ricotta, cream, egg yolks, mozzarella, and nutmeg—stirred in a green Pyrex bowl I’ve had since before Mae. Used a wooden spoon, not sure why. It felt quieter.
- Butter Gets Loud: Melted the butter in a pan that still smells like onions from last week. Sage went in. It sizzled like something trying to speak. Turned gold. I tasted it too early. Burnt my lip. Worth it.
- Mush the Orange Bits: Half the squash got mashed. Half didn’t. I wanted texture. Stirred in the sage butter and stock. It looked gloopy. Didn’t matter.
- Stack It Like You Mean It: Started with ricotta, then noodles, then squash, then noodles again. I know I layered it wrong. I wasn’t in the mood to follow orders. Finished with more ricotta. Then the Parmesan—some on the floor, some in the dish.
- Bake and Don’t Watch It: Into the oven at 375°F. Waited until the top looked borderline scorched. That was the goal. I wanted the crunch. Needed it, maybe.
- Let It Sit, Then Don’t Wait: I told myself I’d let it rest 15 minutes. Lasted maybe 7. Mae had a fork in her hand before I said “done.” We ate it straight from the pan. No plates. Just warmth.