My family can be a tough crowd.
I prepared this polenta lasagna, pictured at left, for dinner on a recent night. It filled the kitchen with that appealing Italian restaurant smell. When it came out of the oven, none of us could resist its burbly, cheesy, tomatoey, come-hither appeal as it rested on the counter. We gathered around in anticipation.
I enjoyed my serving quite a lot. I thought the whole package came together — the gooey pockets of mozzarella, the buttery flavor of fresh spinach tucked inside, the bright marinara sauce, the warming familiarity of the flavors.
“I’m not sure what’s wrong with it,” said my wife. “Maybe the tomato sauce is off. The polenta itself is good.”
“The spinach is gross,” piped in my 12-year-old. “You didn’t cook it right, did you?”
“I really like it,” said my 14-year-old, taking a second bite and then cocking her head. “But it could use more cheese. Or maybe a different cheese. Would cheddar be good?”
The recipe came out of my head rather than …