It started because I couldn’t remember if the radiator was broken again or if I just didn’t care. The air in the kitchen felt like wet wool. I opened the fridge, closed it, opened it again. There was sausage I didn’t buy and a jar of ricotta I definitely meant to use last week. I grabbed both, slammed the door, and muttered something at no one.
I wasn’t going to cook.
But I needed heat.
And the lasagna—Her Highness’s version—just sat there in my head like a dare.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s lasagna is, predictably, an architectural event.
She layers it like she’s designing a guesthouse. Meat sauce so precise it could wear pearls. A ricotta mixture with eggs, milk, mozzarella, parsley—no panic, no skips. Just smooth, built-in elegance. Eighteen noodles, three cups of calm, two cans of tomatoes, a well-behaved hour in the oven.
She even purees the tomatoes. Of course she does.
I’ve made it before, years ago, when I was trying to hold it all together with Parmesan and foil.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have whole tomatoes. Used crushed.
The ricotta had turned, maybe. Smelled fine enough. I added lemon zest, which she’d hate, and forgot the damn parsley entirely. I meant to stir it in—I remember saying it out loud. But then the kettle screeched and Mae texted “the bean thing—remind me how??” and the moment was gone.
Oh, and I used the dented Dutch oven for the sauce, even though she says saucepan. Because I always do. Because I dropped it the night I left him and I still cook with it like it’s part of the family.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
Browned the meat in a rush—sausage and beef, together like old roommates who never really got along.
Onions, carrots, celery. The usual suspects.
I stirred with my left hand and checked the mail with my right.
The garlic went in last and I panicked because it smelled like my dad’s hands. That lemon-rubbed scent of kitchen afternoons, back when dinner came at 6 and no one cried in the pantry.
I tapped the Dutch oven three times while the sauce simmered. Like it could answer me.
Layered fast, clumsily. Noodles. Sauce. Cheese. Repeat. I ripped one sheet with my nail. Left it. Covered the rip with mozzarella like forgiveness.
When it went into the oven, I sat on the floor.
Didn’t know why. Just needed the heat nearby.
A Few Things I Learned
Don’t skip the sitting part.
Not the cooling—though yes, wait for it to set, if you can. I mean the sitting. In front of the oven. On the floor. While it bubbles.
It’s louder than I remembered. It hisses like it’s alive.
And maybe it is.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae came by late. She didn’t say much. Ate two squares cold, standing. Asked if the ricotta was off. I lied. She knew.
We didn’t use plates. Just forks.
The pan was almost empty when she left.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. Not for guests. For the kind of night that needs warmth without conversation.
That’s As Much As I Remember
It smelled better the next morning.
I scraped a corner with a spoon and didn’t bother reheating it.
It was quiet enough to hear the crust crack when I bit in.
That felt like enough.
If you want something messier, I did a version of Martha’s cheesy leek bake last winter that nearly broke the oven—but worth it.
FAQs
Yeah, but it softens a bit. I forgot one slice in the freezer for three weeks and it still tasted like a memory when I reheated it. Just don’t microwave it straight from frozen—have some respect.
Nope. I’ve used cottage cheese. Once I even used Greek yogurt and no one said a word. Not even Mae, and she usually notices.
Long enough to make peace with your decisions. About 90 minutes start to finish, but it’s not the kind of thing you rush. It’s oven time and therapy time.
I did. Tasted fine. Tasted better, actually. Like it didn’t care about presentation, just comfort.
Yes. Always. Cold from the fridge, eaten standing up with a fork straight from the pan. It’s not a tip. It’s a truth.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart Chicken Pot Pie
- Martha Stewart Chicken Soup
- Martha Stewart French Toast
- Martha Stewart Key Lime Pie
Martha Stewart Lasagna Recipe
Description
Made it for warmth, not for structure.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Start the Sauce: Brown the meat in a big pot with olive oil—mine was the Dutch oven with the dent. Always is. Add the sausage and beef together, break them up like you’re settling an argument. When they start to crisp, toss in the onion, carrots, celery. Don’t rush. Let it soften while you stare at nothing. Salt it. Smell it.
- Build the Flavor: Add the garlic once things feel safe. Then oregano, pepper flakes—more than she calls for. I needed the kick. Stir in the tomato paste until it clings to everything. Then add the tomatoes—pureed if you’re her, crushed if you’re me. Let it simmer. Long enough to remember something. Mine bubbled for 20 minutes while Mae looked for her charger and didn’t ask how I was.
- Mix the Cheese Layer: In a big bowl, dump the ricotta. Add milk, eggs, a good handful of Parm, some mozzarella, and—if you remember—chopped parsley. I didn’t. I was halfway through cracking eggs when I realized I hadn’t bought any. It didn’t matter. Add salt, pepper, a zest of lemon if you’re feeling nostalgic. I was.
- Soften the Noodles: Boil them or don’t. I just soaked mine in the kettle’s leftover heat while I stirred the sauce with one hand. One broke. I swore. Covered it with cheese later.
- Layer the Whole Thing: Start with sauce—a couple ladlefuls. Then noodles. Then cheese. Then again. And again. Keep going until the dish groans or your wrists do. Finish with sauce and whatever cheese you’ve got left.
- Bake It Like You Mean It: Cover it, loosely. Parchment. Foil. Your sins. Whatever’s handy. Put it on a baking tray in case it bubbles over (it will). Bake until the top is golden, the sides hiss, and your kitchen smells like someone lives there again. Uncover it at the end. Let it get loud.
- Let It Rest: This part matters. I waited twenty minutes, maybe more. Long enough to text Mae back. Long enough to feel full before eating. Long enough to think about nothing.