Meat Lasagna

Prometheus in ancient Greek mythology gave to man the gift of fire. He also was well-known for his creativity and originality, hence we refer to a person with such qualities to be Promethean. His particular story is especially apropos when applied to the state of my sad, sad abilities in the kitchen, attempting to harness the powers of fire toward a creatively tasteful entrée.

 Here's how I wrestled against home-made meat lasagna. I scoured the net for a suitably challenging recipe that would teach me through trial and tribulation some new cooking techniques. This one is adapted from allrecipes.com and can be found at:

http://allrecipes.com/recipe/worlds-best-lasagna/

 The challenge focus for today manifests in a fairly varied ingredient list, so if you are trying to recreate this adventure at home, make sure before starting that all of your spices and seasonings are Braille or large print labeled correctly (refer to Kitchen Prep Posts for tips).

I always try to get all of my ingredients in a row before even putting on the apron. For low vision folks, it helps to have an ingredient placement system so you don’t accidentally put 4 times the salt into your sauce. Personally, I place them in a neat arc on the baking center in the order they are listed on the recipe.  Examining the list closely and noting the prep time of 3.25 hours, I took in a deep breath and prepared for a long day. In my past experiences, doubling that amount of time is more accurate.

To save a bit of time and money, I purchased pre-minced onions and sneakily borrowed some no-boil lasagna noodles, the fennel seeds and Italian seasoning from friends. No need to spend exorbitant funds on an ingredient you don’t foresee using often. See how Promethean I am?

For some reason, I thought that greasing the lasagna dish first would be a great idea. Casting about the kitchen for something suitably greasy, I found what looked promising inside a new container with which I was not familiar. Inside dwelt a semi-soft, lotion-textured substance. I bravely enlisted a visiting friend to taste test it, who informed me that the yellowish mystery cream was tasteless. And since he most notably did NOT die, I liberally used some. Later, my roommate vetted it to be some sort of room-temperature solid butter, the likes of which only erudite microbiologists know and use, and that I had never heard. (“clarified butter,” come to find out. I frequently misremember it as “streamlined” or “clensed butter”.) The mad science continued without disruption—for now.

In the spirit of all this prep work, I also whipped out everything I’d need in the cooking process. So with a clang and a clatter, out came the mixing bowls, wire whisks, rubber spatula, Helga the Dutch oven, apron, mitts,  tasting spoons, paper towels, and the fire extinguisher if I had one—I settled for baking soda instead. And the first aid kit, I noted, was also at hand.

Step 1 of this recipe instructs the sighted food preparer to thoroughly brown the delicious sausage and beef to prevent poisoning yourself and others. This is especially critical when dealing with pork products. But these kinds of instructions are useless as many of you may not know what brown is. Instead, find a way to ascertain the meat’s texture. Spoon some out and cut it with a knife. Put on mitts and tear some apart in your hands. Press down on it with a thin spatula. However it’s done, listen for the sizzling of the meat to go from an Amazonian rain forest downpour to a gentle Pacific Northwest cleansing shower. At that point, the meat should tear apart without any stringiness or rubbery-like texture. (Side note: seek out recipes that are more descriptive in terms of touch, smell, or other non-visual cues. They do exist!) Proceed…

Now to deal with the insane amounts of tomato products. I learned here that using a wide-brimmed measuring cup is best, as I later had tomato paste and sauce dripping rhythmically off of my sink faucet, counter top, and window sill. (Don’t ask.)  For the seasonings, I took a close friend’s advice and simply added the approximate correct amount to the sauce, and checked it for taste. (I say again! Am I not Promethean?) Unfortunately, I got distracted and added in 4 times the amount of recommended salt.  Tasting the sauce henceforth was dehydrating.

 

Step 2 was omitted thanks to the no-boil noodles. Mistake no. 4,423.

The rest of the process was fairly straight-forward. Layering noodles and cheese and sauce is tactile-intensive enough; don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty. And then…Voile! Present to all who dare a salty-sauced, rubber-noodled lasagna! (Note to self: Use regular noodles next time, thereby circumventing Mistake no. 4,423.)

 In the end, it only took me around 3.5 hours to prepare. The trick is to chop, grate, and slice ingredients while the sauce is simmering, which, by the way, is easily discernible when you hear the mixture intermittently, softly bubbling like a bog. Enforce your organizational system strictly for both your raw and prepared ingredients. The stakes here aren’t too high if you mix up the parm and the mozzarella, but what if it were…I don’t know…say for example…salt and garlic.

Ode to Helga, The Dutch Oven

Oh, Helga! You are so good to me.

You don’t horde your food greedily.
That non-stick bottom keeps you mess-free.

This actually kept well in the refrigerator for days and days...probably because of all the salt preserving it.