First week of college. I survived. Barely.
Monday was orientation-level chaos. I couldn't find parking for twenty minutes, walked into the wrong building twice, and arrived at Communications 101 sweating and out of breath and sat down next to a girl who looked at me and said, 'Same.' Her name is Dana. She's also a commuter. She's also a communications major. She also couldn't find parking. I think we're going to be friends, which is the fastest I've ever made a friend since third grade in Jacksonville when I bonded with a girl over mutual hatred of the cafeteria pizza.
Communications 101 is taught by Professor Whitman, a middle-aged woman with enormous glasses who talks about 'the power of narrative' like it's a religious experience. I'm into it. English Comp is taught by a graduate student named Tyler (not Hicks, a different Tyler) who is trying very hard to be taken seriously and mostly succeeding. Statistics is taught by a man who is actively hostile to joy. Mass Media is online, which means I'll either be very disciplined about it or very not.
The commute is fine. Twenty minutes each way, depending on traffic. I listen to podcasts and pretend I'm not bothered by the fact that I'm driving away from college at 3 PM while everyone else is walking to the dining hall. I'm not bothered. I'm fine. I'm fine fine.
I came home Tuesday and Mom had made her slow-cooker chili because it was the first week of school and apparently Donna Abernathy's response to every life transition is to put something in the crockpot. Her chili is ground beef, kidney beans, diced tomatoes, onion, garlic, chili powder, cumin, a little brown sugar, and — this is the secret — a tablespoon of cocoa powder. Not enough to taste chocolate, but enough to add depth and richness that makes people say 'What IS that?' and she says 'Just chili.' She serves it with cornbread and shredded cheese and sour cream and I eat it from a bowl on the couch because first-week-of-college me has no dignity and no desire to eat at a table like a person.
'How were your classes?' Mom asked.
'Good. I think I like Comm 101. My professor talks about narrative like it's magic.'
'Narrative IS magic,' Mom said, which was surprisingly philosophical for a woman who was currently removing a piece of cornbread from the crockpot where it had fallen in. 'What do you think I'm doing when I tell you about the time your father proposed?'
'Telling a story?'
'Telling THE story. The one that makes the rest of it — the moves, the deployments, the garage in the dark — make sense. That's narrative. That's the magic.'
My mother, ladies and gentlemen. She didn't go to college, but she understands more about the power of narrative than Professor Whitman and her enormous glasses.
First week: survived. Classes: promising. Chili: perfect. Narrative: magic.
We're doing this.
Mom’s slow-cooker chili will always be the gold standard of “you survived, here’s something warm” cooking — but when I started wanting to make that same kind of deep, fill-you-up comfort food on my own, I kept coming back to this Dutch oven lasagna. Like the chili, it’s a one-pot situation, it gets better as it sits, and it has that same quality of making a hard week feel suddenly manageable. If Donna Abernathy’s crockpot is the original narrator of our family’s life transitions, consider this lasagna my first chapter.
Dutch Oven Lasagna
Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 45 min | Total Time: 1 hr 5 min | Servings: 6
Ingredients
- 1 lb ground beef (85/15)
- 1 medium yellow onion, diced
- 4 cloves garlic, minced
- 1 (24 oz) jar marinara sauce
- 1 (14.5 oz) can diced tomatoes, undrained
- 2 cups water
- 1 tsp dried Italian seasoning
- 1/2 tsp red pepper flakes (optional)
- Salt and black pepper to taste
- 9 dry lasagna noodles, broken into thirds
- 1 (15 oz) container whole-milk ricotta cheese
- 1 large egg
- 1/4 cup fresh parsley, chopped (plus more for garnish)
- 2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese, divided
- 1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese, divided
Instructions
- Brown the beef. Heat a 5- to 6-quart Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add the ground beef and cook, breaking it up with a wooden spoon, until no pink remains, about 6–8 minutes. Drain excess fat, leaving about 1 tablespoon in the pot.
- Build the base. Add the diced onion to the pot and cook over medium heat until softened, about 4 minutes. Stir in the garlic and cook 1 minute more, until fragrant.
- Add the sauce. Pour in the marinara, diced tomatoes (with their juices), and water. Stir in Italian seasoning, red pepper flakes (if using), salt, and pepper. Bring to a simmer.
- Add the noodles. Nestle the broken lasagna noodles into the simmering sauce, pressing them down so they are mostly submerged. Cover the pot, reduce heat to medium-low, and cook for 20–25 minutes, stirring every 8 minutes to prevent sticking, until noodles are tender.
- Make the ricotta layer. While the noodles cook, stir together the ricotta, egg, parsley, 1/4 cup of the Parmesan, and a pinch of salt in a small bowl until smooth.
- Layer and melt. Once noodles are tender, drop spoonfuls of the ricotta mixture over the surface of the lasagna. Scatter 1 1/2 cups of the mozzarella and the remaining Parmesan evenly on top. Cover the pot and cook on low for 5–7 minutes, until the cheese is fully melted.
- Finish and serve. Remove the lid and let the lasagna rest for 5 minutes off the heat. Top with remaining 1/2 cup mozzarella, replace the lid for 2 minutes to melt, then garnish with fresh parsley. Scoop directly from the pot into bowls.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 580 | Protein: 38g | Fat: 26g | Carbs: 48g | Fiber: 4g | Sodium: 920mg
About the cook who shared this
Rachel Abernathy
Week 23 of Rachel’s 30-year story
· San Diego, California
Rachel is a twenty-eight-year-old Marine wife and mom of two who has moved five times in six years and learned to cook a Thanksgiving dinner with half her cookware still in boxes. She married young, survived postpartum depression, and feeds her family of four on a junior Marine's salary with a freezer full of pre-made meals and a crockpot that has never let her down. She writes for the military spouses who are cooking dinner alone in base housing and wondering if they're enough. You are.