Welcome back, friends! Today, I’m sharing my extra-special lasagna recipe. The women in my family have passed down this recipe for years, and today I’m going to share my secret with all of you! As always, let me know what you think and how you’ve fared with the recipe. I would love to hear from you and get to know this community.
I revisited this recipe a few weeks ago when our church had its annual spring potluck. As I’m sure many of you know, COVID left many hungry mouths to feed, and I’ve always thought lasagna is the perfect cure for all that ails you. This event was extra special for me as this fall marks my 20th anniversary of joining the church after marrying Andy. I am so grateful to the tight-knit community that adopted me into their company. Like Job, I have been provided endless guidance and comfort over these last 20 years. So I jumped at the chance to support my friends in any way possible.
I’m sure many of you noticed in your own quiet way that I haven’t posted any recipes in the last few months, but I’m here to tell you I’m still alive and well! These last few months have been transformative as Andy and I dropped our daughter Emma off at college! She was hesitant to leave, but in the end, we decided she needed to see the world (or at least Michigan!). My baby is all grown up now, and I couldn’t be prouder (unless she decides to drop out of forensics and follow in her mother’s footsteps as an English major!).
To tell you the truth, friends, I like believing we’re all family around here, and family doesn’t lie to each other. Our first few weeks as empty nesters were difficult. With Emma away at school, the house became a museum. Quiet, displaying only the past, and devoid of life. Andy and I lasted about 30 minutes in silence before we realised there was now a hole that needed to be filled in our lives. Of course, Andy was still working. He would be gone all day and often all night, attending meetings with other grocery store managers. So it was up to me to find ways to fill my days. Like most people, I began by throwing myself into work. I spent my days testing different recipes, reading cookbooks, and finding the best prices for ingredients. If I couldn’t cook for my baby, I thought I would cook for all of you! However, after a week of running around, Andy pointed out that groceries aren’t free, and neither is a gym membership, which I would need if I kept up the way I was going (he keeps me honest!). So I needed to find another way to keep myself occupied.
In an attempt to balance out my work and life, I decided to try out some dance classes offered by my local rec centre. To my great surprise, I learned I’m not half bad at salsa! When I asked Andy to join me, he told me he has ‘two left feet and zero—’ well, it’s another f-word. And it was silly of me to ask in the first place, knowing that Andy doesn’t finish work until eleven or twelve most nights. Plus, my hulking specimen of a husband would look a little out of place on a dance floor. So alone I went to class each week.
Most nights, there would be another person looking for a partner, but I must say, many people do not come to the dance naturally. By the end of my first week, my toes had turned purple from all the stomping they endured. Luckily, after two weeks of searching for a suitable partner, I met Bernardo, whose husband had also abandoned him. Bernardo was incredibly kind, never getting angry when I missed a step or asked endless questions about his work. He even asked me about my work, and inquired about teaching him to cook something his husband wouldn’t have to pretend to enjoy. I was so happy to make a friend! Of course, with Andy being Mr. Sensitive about missing out on all the fun, we started to sound like Nora and Torvald when it came to dancing. After a month of lessons, his sensitivity reached the point where I had to sneak back into the house after class. Emma had only been gone for two months, and suddenly I was sneaking back into the house like a teenager!
Andy wasn’t the only one noticing my latest enterprise. The news of my new hobby quickly became the talk of the parish. One Sunday morning, I counted twenty-three women pointing me out to a friend. Not to be immodest, but word spreads fast when you’ve got the moves! Even the priest had heard and came to speak with me after the service. I felt like a star being asked questions on the red carpet. Father Patrick wanted to hear all about my classes and my new friend Bernardo! He even asked if I had plans to bring Bernardo to any of the services. We must be short on pews or something because the father had such a look of relief when I told him that Bernardo would not be attending. To all those worried about the declining attendance in church, have no fear because the people of St. John’s Church are still packing the house!
The following weeks felt like they were out of a movie! Bernardo and I were becoming fast friends. He showed me the gallery he curated. I’m no brainiac about the art world, but Bernardo was so lovely, explaining each piece and who the artist was. I wanted to reach out and touch one painting that had this beautiful glossy finish over it, but Bernardo kindly asked that I not touch the art. He’s so calm, if Andy were there he would have swatted my hand away like I was reaching for a third cookie. Another day I taught Bernardo to make my pie crust. We started the day with a trip to the farmers market, visiting each fruit vendor until we found the perfect apples and blueberries. We had a lovely afternoon, talking about everything from art, to kids, to getting a perfect crimped edge. There was also a bit of liquid fun, so I got to meet Bernardo’s husband when he came to pick him up. He was even lovelier than Bernardo described! He did insist he would be a danger in our dance class, but promised to make his famous pico de gallo if Andy and I ever went over to their house. The fall seemed to fly by while spending time with my lovely new friends.
Andy didn’t care much for spending all my free time with Bernado; he wanted to keep me all to himself (men and their jealousy!). So much so that he added a deadbolt to our front door, which he would lock by ten o’clock each night. I quickly adjusted to this new curfew, partially in fear that Andy’s heavy sleeping habits would result in me spending the night on the front lawn. Oh, how our neighbours would have gotten a laugh out of that. While the new curfew added some challenges to my plans, I couldn’t help but see Andy as my very own Mr. Rochester. Someone get me a corset and bonnet!
To be honest friends, I was surprised at how much Andy disapproved of my new friendship with Bernardo. Andy has his work wife, Sharon, and I have never said a word about one of their late-night meetings. Well, except one time when I asked Andy why a store clerk needed to attend the manager’s conferences, to which he replied that Sharon was a stress relief and that I wouldn’t understand since I only worked in the home. He had me there. But Andy and Sharon were just like the Commander and Offred, just playing their parts.
One night, while Andy and Sharon were off at a conference in the city, I asked Bernardo over to help me make the lasagnas for the church potluck (you probably thought I got completely off track here, didn’t you? Ye of little faith. It’s all important). We had just gotten the first lasagna into the oven when Andy came barging through the front door. His conference must have been boring or something for him to have left Sharon in such a rush. He didn’t offer any explanation; instead, he turned his attention to Bernardo. I won’t repeat the things Andy said that night because he had clearly had too much to drink, and when that happens, he tends to forget his manners and human decency. Bernardo offered to help me get Andy to bed, but neither of us thought that would be a good idea. Instead, I apologised to Bernardo while walking him to the door. Then I was left to deal with Andy on my own. After 20 years, this routine remains as challenging as ever.
By the time I had left him, Andy had gotten off his pants, but not his shoes, and lay out on the couch. I was able to sit him up and take off his dress shirt, which had red smudges all over the collar. My laundry skills have become quite proficient after spending years getting various cocktail and barbecue sauces out of Andy’s collars; you could never know a stain existed. My attention was pulled from the smudges as the smell of whiskey and Sharon’s perfume overcame me (ladies, please remember a little goes a long way!). I must have been mumbling to myself about the smell because Andy suddenly stood up and started shouting. He began screaming about how Sharon always liked the way he smelled and that if I smelled like her, maybe he would be home more often. It was as if Mr. Hyde had corrupted Andy.
The oven timer saved me. I walked into the kitchen, but Andy continued yelling incoherently as he followed me. Without a word in return, Andy resumed his rant, talking about how I couldn’t judge him and how I never gave him the benefit of the doubt. Then he began talking about what else I didn’t give him, and I was shocked. I told him, as a good Christian man, he should not talk like that. Imagine if someone from the church had heard him speaking that way! We would have been cast out. I didn’t want to give Andy any reason to continue his ridicule, so I hid my face by reaching into the oven. It’s best to let them tire themselves out; never let them see how they perturb you. However, Andy wasn’t slowing down. He began on a rant about how the church had already turned its back on him, and how he never got respect after marrying me. Can you imagine that? These people had become like family to me, always offering guidance on how to dress or how much salt goes in a casserole. For god’s sake, you tease the ones you love, right? How awful it must feel to try and befriend people for years, devoting your time and energy into convincing them to like you, and for all of that to have been in vain. For them to have hated you before you even walked down that aisle. Imagine how horrible that must be. A silent tear got the better of me, upsetting Andy, who asked what I had to cry about. He went on to say that I was never going to be a woman of God. Especially after befriending a couple of— people. But Andy used an ugly word for my new friends. Hearing that grotesque word come from my husband’s mouth detached my brain from my body.
The next thing I know, Andy’s mouth is moving, but I can’t hear anything he’s saying. Not until I hear ‘Listen to me when I’m talking to you.’ I remember looking up and meeting his eyes as his hand started to come up towards me. Instinctively, I flinched, but I misunderstood his intention. I watched in horror as he threw my lasagna off the counter. The shattering sound of the glass dish hitting the floor was deafening. All the heat rose between Andy and me.
The fury in his eyes was quickly replaced by panic. I wish it were because he understood how he hurt me, but it wasn’t. Andy must have gained too much momentum in his swing, causing him to lose his balance. He collapsed, landing in the lasagna. I bent down beside him as we both realized that the shards of glass had cushioned his fall.
Previously, I never thought much of the expression ‘it all happens so fast,’ but it’s true. In an instant, Andy’s neck stopped craning up to see me, and the kitchen floor was painted crimson. I watched myself reach for the phone, listening to my husband’s ragged breaths. I felt my hand curl around the phone, only to place it back on the wall. I saw myself reaching for Andy’s hand, squeezing it one final time. I’m sure this time moved much more slowly for Andy. I’m sure those ten minutes laying in his blood and mistakes felt like an eternity. But we will never know. Personally, I found the next ten to be the longest.
Sitting alone on the kitchen floor, away from the glass, and lasagna, and Andy. All I could think of was all the smug faces of the women in the parish. I thought of the moment when they would inevitably realize I had failed to bring anything to the potluck. They would begin whispering to each other, then let out snickers while covering their face as if to suggest they didn’t want to be caught. My hands would hang empty and heavy by my sides while I smiled and laughed off my failures. I sat frozen in fear for a while. Until after what felt like years, I allowed myself to cry.
I remember Andy once telling me that you never know when inspiration is going to strike. At the moment I hated those words. He had said that while leaving for Atlantic City with Sharon. However, I suddenly felt very inspired.
There are lots of things to be said about me. I may not be as brave as Emma, strong as Andy, or smart as Sharon, but the one thing I do know about myself is that I’m scrappy. I have lived a life of spinning straw into gold, and this was no exception. I wiped away my tears as I got to my feet and searched for another lasagna pan. Thankfully, I bought a matching pair of them from the Prepared Chef a few years back. If any of you are wondering where to invest your hard-earned money, I highly recommend making your way down there.
Another crucial tool to invest in is a good meat grinder. I was given mine as a wedding present from my great-aunt Gertrude. While I hadn’t gotten very much use out of it in the past, I was suddenly very grateful to have that tool in my back pocket. Now it’s important to be very careful when using a meat grinder; you don’t want anyone to get hurt. Another crucial step is making sure you get all the meat off the bones before getting anywhere near the meat grinder. This job is time-consuming, to say the least, but I find that if you put on a nice sitcom, the time melts away. My personal favourite is Everybody Loves Raymond, I just love that crazy family.
For those at home wondering if you can use pre-ground meat in your lasagna, you absolutely can! Previously, I exclusively made mine with pre-ground meats, so there is no shame in that game. It’s all about doing whatever you can to help yourself out.
After watching the entirety of the third season of Raymond, I finally had all my meat ground up. I quickly got to work layering up lasagna after lasagna. I have never considered myself much of a night owl, but as I worked, I found a new energy deep within that kept me going.
I spent the rest of the night layering, cooking, and cooling all my lasagnas. As well as attending to some necessary deep cleaning in the kitchen (all those days listening to Emma talk about cleaning crime scenes taught me a thing or two about keeping a tidy and sterile house!). I don’t know what time I got to bed, but as soon as my head hit that pillow, I was out.
The next morning, while waiting for Bernardo, I did a little gardening. I’m no expert, but here’s a tip: finding natural fertilizers is important to keep your plants looking fresh! After about an hour of digging and planting, I was ready for my day. Bernardo picked me up to help me get all those lasagnas to the church, and thank goodness he did, because I got on a hot streak and ended up making more than I planned. Bernardo insisted I was too generous for my own good. Normally I would have offered him one, and he did look tempted by them, but these were for the church. They deserved them. I did promise to make it up to Bernardo. He’s invited me to a potluck at his house next week, so I promised to help him make some desserts beforehand. It’ll be so much fun!
I didn’t stay at the church for long. I just handed off my lasagnas and watched as the parish ladies realized how devilishly good my cooking was. As I walked out of the hall, I was thrilled to see the rain pouring down. It seemed like that was the end of my 40 days.
Well enough of my talking, I know the real reason you all come here is for the recipes and not to hear an old woman chatter on about her boring life. Without further ado, my lasagna recipe!
Edith Nelson is the creator of Kitchen Tales, a blog that inspires others to learn to cook for themselves while providing great stories. She lives in Waverly, Iowa, with her husband, and daughter Emma. Edith is a self-taught cook hoping to inspire others to get in the kitchen and outside their comfort zone.
Published Jan. 2014
SADIE DE ARRUDA is in her third year at Queens University studying English and Creative Writing. She hails from Kingston, and on her commute to school, thinks of new story ideas. Sadie would like to stress that she is not as crazy as her writing makes her seem.