Lasagna for the Pasta Skeptic

A lesson in pasta from doubt to devotion

Sometimes the best way to change minds is to get hands-on.

Lasagna is comfort food for many, but not everyone is on board with pasta. I’ll admit it — even I have a complicated relationship with it. I love pasta in theory, but I’d rarely order it. Why? Because so often it starts strong — that first bite is glorious — and then every bite after tastes exactly the same. The novelty wears off. It becomes... meh.

But pasta doesn’t have to be that way. With the right approach, the right balance of texture and flavour, and a few unexpected twists, it can become something bold and exciting — even for the skeptics.

This lesson was all about flipping the script. Taking a classic and making it captivating again. Relearning a dish that too often feels forgettable, and proving it can be anything but.

The Lesson

Starting with Dough — Feel Over Formula

We began where all fresh pasta should: the dough. It’s deceptively simple — just 00 flour and eggs — but getting it right is all about the feel. Everyone has their own variation: some swear by extra yolks, a splash of oil, a touch of semolina. I keep it minimal: 100g of flour to 1 egg, and maybe a bit of water to bring it together.

There’s no precise measurement for how much liquid you'll need — it depends on the flour, the humidity, and honestly, your instincts. When it’s right, you know. It should feel smooth but not tacky, pliable but not sticky. Knead it just enough to bring it together into a cohesive, elastic ball — then let it rest. Resting is key. It allows the gluten to relax, which makes rolling much easier later on.

The Ragu — Where the Magic Happens

While the dough rested, we moved on to the ragu. This is where the big flavour lives. A lasagna lives or dies by its sauce — forget bland, watery mince. This one had depth.

Instead of starting with plain mince, we used a mix of high-quality burger patties — ideally venison and pork for flavour and fat — and supplemented with a bit of beef mince. Burgers might sound unorthodox, but they’re usually well-seasoned and just fatty enough to make a ragu sing.

The aromatics were classic but essential: onion, leek, and carrot, sweated down until soft but not coloured. Garlic came later, added with the meat to avoid burning. As the meat browned, we broke it up — no sad clumps allowed — and then came the flavour bombs.

This is where the sauce became something special:

• Tomato purée for depth

• Rich beef stock

• A spoonful of miso for umami

• Black garlic for sweetness and complexity

• A good glug of red wine to deglaze

• Then finally, tinned tomatoes and a sprig of rosemary to simmer away

The longer it cooked, the richer it became — transforming into the kind of sauce you’d happily eat with a spoon.

The Béchamel — With a Twist

Next came the béchamel — the creamy counterpoint to all that boldness. We kept it traditional at first: butter, flour, milk, and a whisper of nutmeg. But then someone asked, “Mustard?” — and I couldn’t resist. Out came the bottle of classic American yellow mustard. I can almost hear a few Italian nonnas rolling in their graves, but honestly? It worked. It added a touch of tang and a beautiful golden hue.

The Cheese — It's Your Call

Finally, the cheese. This is where I say: you’re in charge. Only you know your cheese tolerance. In our case? Maximum cheesiness was requested. So we went big:

• A generous mound of grated cheddar

• Torn mozzarella for stretch and creaminess

• A final scattering of grated parmesan for salt and savoury sharpness

No cheese police here. Just go with what feels right.

Assembling — Rough, Ready, and Real

By now the dough was rested, rolled, and ready. We did it all by hand — no machines — which meant our sheets were far from perfect. Slightly jagged edges, irregular shapes… but that just made it more personal. More ours.

We layered it all up: ragu, béchamel, cheese, pasta — three layers of comfort, flavour, and effort. Baked until golden and bubbling, the final lasagna had crispy edges, gooey middle, and a sauce that clung to every bite.

Why This Lesson Matters

This wasn’t about following a strict recipe or chasing perfection. It was about reconnecting with food through instinct — feeling the dough, layering flavour by taste, and trusting your hands. Cooking with friends, learning by doing, and letting the process guide you instead of the rules.

It reminded me that as a chef, I already have the tools — the knowledge lives in muscle memory. The night before, I hadn’t even looked at a recipe. I caught myself worrying, and then thought: Why would I need one? I’ve made lasagna how many times? That shift — from overthinking to flowing naturally — changed everything. The result was better because it felt comfortable, honest, and shared.

The Verdict

There’s a saying among my friends: when I cook something that completely changes how they feel about a dish they usually hate, they say we have to rename it. “It’s too good to be called that.”

This lasagna earned that honour.

My friend — who usually avoids not just lasagna but all pasta — finished their plate and said the words. That was the moment I knew it had worked. The dish didn’t just taste good. It told a story, flipped a perspective, and brought someone new into the fold.

Final Thought

If there’s a dish you think you hate — or one you’ve written off as boring — give it one more go. Make it yourself. Tweak it. Infuse it with things you love. Sometimes, it’s not the dish that’s the problem — it’s how it’s been done.

Change the approach, and you might just change your mind.