There are some foods I think I could love in almost any form, and lasagna is one of them.

Give me layers of pasta, beautiful tomato sauce, vegetables tucked here and there, creamy ricotta and mozzarella melting over the top, and I am probably going to be very happy.

For many years, though, lasagna was one of those foods that became harder to find once I became completely plant-based. Pasta and tomato sauce were easy enough. Vegetables were certainly not a problem. But lasagna without good ricotta and mozzarella never quite felt like lasagna to me.

Then Lloyd and I discovered Crossroads Kitchen in Los Angeles.

We started going there for special occasions, and their lasagna quickly became one of those dishes we ordered again and again, usually alongside several other things we wanted to share. It was hearty and abundant, wonderfully creamy, and somehow still elegant. More importantly, it reminded me of what lasagna could be.

I became especially curious about the ricotta.

Over time we got to know the chef, and of course I asked questions. Lots of questions. Fortunately, I received just enough answers to send me home determined to begin experimenting for myself.

That is often how recipes begin in my kitchen.

I taste something that makes me stop. I become curious. I ask questions. And then eventually I find myself standing in my own kitchen thinking, How can I make this in a way that feels like mine?

When I recreate a traditional dish as plant-based, authenticity matters to me. I don’t want to remove the ingredients that define a dish and simply accept what remains. I want to understand what those ingredients were contributing—flavor, texture, richness, aroma—and find another way to bring those qualities back.

Lasagna made that especially clear.

Without a really good ricotta and mozzarella, I didn’t think I could make the kind of lasagna I remembered and wanted to eat. Once I had foundational recipes for both, however, it felt as though an entire new part of my kitchen opened up. Those two cheeses could become pizza, stuffed pasta, sandwiches, baked dishes—and, finally, a lasagna I genuinely loved.

The first ricotta I developed was the Basil & Onion Tofu Ricotta used here.

I knew that if I combined creamy tofu with plenty of fresh basil and onions cooked slowly until tender and sweet, I would already be headed somewhere delicious. A little miso brings fermented depth and umami; lemon gives it brightness; and olive oil rounds everything out.

But there is another version for those occasions when I want to take this lasagna completely over the top. I replace the tofu ricotta with my Creamy Almond Ricotta. It is certainly the more extravagant choice—almonds make it more expensive, and it takes considerably more time—but the result is extraordinarily creamy, rich and decadent. It isn’t the version I need every time I make lasagna, but every once in a while, abundance deserves to be truly abundant.

Then there are the mushrooms, cooked until their moisture disappears and their flavor becomes concentrated and deeply savory. Spinach brings tenderness and something fresh and green. And running through all of it is perhaps the quietest ingredient in the entire recipe: that beautiful, simple tomato sauce.

Passata. Fresh tomatoes. Garlic. Olive oil. Sea salt.

That’s it.

But it is the thread that ties everything together. We keep it intentionally loose and generous because as the lasagna bakes, that sauce finds its way into everything—the pasta absorbs some, the ricotta settles into it, and the edges stay tender instead of becoming dry.

And now there is one more character joining the cast: the pasta itself.

Making my own pasta has been on my list for a long time, and fresh sourdough lasagne sheets are where I want this recipe to go next. There is something wonderfully satisfying about imagining the whole dish coming together from foundational recipes in my own kitchen—the ricotta, the mozzarella, the sauce and even the pasta.

It certainly isn’t the quickest way to make dinner.

But lasagna has never felt like fast food to me anyway.

Even when we take a few shortcuts, there is still something wonderfully slow about making one. We prepare the components. We build the layers. We cover the pan and put it into the oven. Then we wait while everything that tasted good individually becomes something much better together.

I love that kind of cooking.

I love having an afternoon in the kitchen when there is nowhere else I need to be and no reason to hurry. I can make the sauce, sauté the mushrooms, wilt the spinach, spread thin layers of basil ricotta between sheets of pasta and scatter mozzarella and creamy almond ricotta over the top.

And the reward isn’t only dinner that night.

This is an abundant meal. There is enough to gather people around the table, enough to offer someone another piece, and usually enough left to discover that lasagna may be even better the next day.

I love serving it to guests for exactly that reason. A homemade lasagna arrives at the table already feeling generous. Nobody needs to know how many little steps happened before it got there. They simply see this bubbling, layered dish placed in the middle of the table and know that someone spent time making dinner for them.

Crossroads may have been where this particular adventure began, but somewhere along the way I stopped trying to recreate their lasagna.

I made my own.

And perhaps that is my favorite kind of recipe development—the moment inspiration becomes something personal, something I return to again and again, and eventually something I can place in the middle of my own table and share.

Because in the end, a beautifully abundant lasagna isn’t really about how many layers you can fit into a pan.

It’s about having enough to gather people around the table—and giving them a reason to stay.

Certainly a meal that gathers people.