I first fell in love with vegan ricotta at Crossroads Kitchen here in Los Angeles.

They were using it in appetizers, tucked inside pastas and layered into lasagna, and I remember thinking almost immediately: I need to learn how to make this.

Not long afterward, I discovered Kite Hill almond ricotta at Whole Foods and started buying it regularly. It was delicious—creamy, delicate, and surprisingly close to the ricotta I remembered—but at more than ten dollars for a little tub, eventually I decided there was only one reasonable thing to do.

I needed to make my own.

My first homemade version was actually my tofu ricotta, which I still love and make today. It is wonderful tucked inside lasagna and stuffed pasta, particularly when I want to add a little more protein to a meal. And although I think my tofu version is a wonderful stand-in whenever I need ricotta in a recipe, I wanted to create something different—something more authentic and closer to traditional Italian ricotta. I wanted something creamy, cultured, and beautiful enough to stand on its own.

There was another cheese quietly influencing me, too.

For years I have been going to Vromage, my local vegan cheese shop owned by Youssef, who has become my friend over time. I have bought many of his cheeses, but he knows his ricotta is my favorite. His is made differently from mine—I believe he uses macadamia nuts—but it is absolutely delicious.

And I have always loved the name Vromage. Fromage is French for cheese, and Youssef simply traded the F for a V. Vegan fromage. Vromage. How clever is that?

Macadamia nuts, however, can be expensive, and I wanted a ricotta I could make regularly in my own kitchen. So I began experimenting with almonds.

It took more than a few tries. I gathered ideas from different raw-food cheesemakers, played with proportions and technique, and eventually wandered my way into this version.

One of the little things that makes mine especially creamy is the soy milk. Rather than blending the almonds entirely with water, I first cover them with soy milk and then add water to reach the proper volume. It brings a little extra protein, but more importantly, I think it gives the ricotta another layer of creaminess and richness.

Then comes the lemon.

The almond milk is gently heated, curdled and left alone while time does most of the work. Slowly the whey drains away and what remains becomes soft, white and wonderfully ricotta-like.

How long you drain it is really a matter of what kind of ricotta you want. Drain it less and it remains exceptionally moist and creamy. Give it more time and it becomes firmer and a little more crumbly.

Somewhere in between is what I call the Goldilocks method—not too wet, not too dry, but just right.

You could stop there.

In fact, if you don’t want to ferment it, you can have beautiful fresh almond ricotta within hours, depending upon how quickly it drains.

But I almost never stop there.

I ferment mine.

Cultured foods have always fascinated me because fermentation changes more than flavor. That little bit of time transforms something simple into something deeper and more complex. In this ricotta, it develops the gentle tang I am looking for and turns a lovely fresh almond cheese into something that tastes unmistakably cultured.

It means waiting another day or two.

It is worth the wait.

Ricotta has become one of the foundational ingredients in my kitchen. During the years when I couldn’t find a store-bought vegan mozzarella I really liked, I used this on practically everything—including my pizzas. And I still love ricotta on pizza. Once I began developing my own mozzarella, I didn’t replace the ricotta with it.

I just started using both.

Double goodness on one pizza seems like a perfectly reasonable solution to me.

I have served this ricotta many times to people who eat dairy cheese, and no one has ever stopped to ask whether it is vegan. Granted, when I am the person serving the food, they may already have their suspicions. Mostly, though, they just tell me how much they like it.

For special dinners, I love putting a wheel of it on a charcuterie board, where it often becomes the star of the whole thing. And because the basic ricotta is intentionally simple, you can take it in almost any direction you like. Fold in herbs from the garden. Add chopped olives or sweet peppers. Spoon it over pasta. Tear pieces over pizza. Spread it on crackers. Or simply leave it exactly as it is.

There is, however, one thing I highly recommend.

Olive oil.

Put this ricotta on a beautiful ripe tomato or a piece of toast and drizzle good olive oil over the top. Or spread some onto a cracker and do the same. Somehow that combination—ricotta and olive oil—can transport me straight back to Italy with the first bite.

And since my memories of Italy are all pleasant ones, I don’t particularly mind being distracted from whatever I am doing for a little visit there.

One batch makes two of my smaller ricotta molds, which lasts us quite a while when we’re eating it a little at a time. If I know I’m making lasagna or another dish that uses ricotta as a filling, I make a double batch.

It is one of those recipes that looks far more complicated than it really is. At its heart, it is almonds, soy milk, water, lemon and salt—and, if you choose, a little culture. There is no elaborate cheesemaking technique. Mostly, there is patience.

And perhaps that is part of why I love making it.

Simple ingredients. A little time. A little transformation.

And in the end, something creamy, cultured and beautiful enough to make you wonder why you ever thought you needed to buy it in a little tub.

I hope you’ll give this one a try. Because for all the places this ricotta has traveled in my kitchen—from lasagna to pizza to charcuterie boards to Italy and back again—it really is exactly what its category promises:

a small, beautiful thing.