Pumpkin Lasagna

There are weeknight dinners, and then there's this beautiful beast of a lasagna. Layered with browned butter, silky pumpkin, salty pancetta-laced Swiss chard, and bubbling fontina béchamel, it's unapologetically autumnal—golden, rich, and perfumed with sage. It's not quick, but every component earns its keep. When you pull this bronzed, bubbling pan from the oven, you'll know you've made something special. It's so impressive and rich with fall flavor, I even plan to serve it for Thanksgiving alongside the turkey this year, and I fully anticipate it will upstage the bird.

While not a "classic" lasagna, lasagne di zucca e besciamella fits comfortably in the Northern Italian canon of baked pasta (pasticci or pasticcio), which are lush, layered baked dishes of noodles, vegetables, and sauce that blur the line between pasta and casserole. In Emilia-Romagna, Lombardy, and Veneto, pumpkin (zucca) is a loved and celebrated seasonal vegetable. There's tortelli di zucca, delicate pasta filled with sweet-savory squash and Parmigiano; gnocchi di zucca, tender dumplings that almost melt in butter and sage; and now, there are iterations of pumpkin lasagna popping up in the modern Italian kitchen.

My version is a love letter to Northern Italian cuisine and cooking that requires time and devotion. The pumpkin, sage, and browned butter form one layer of flavor; pancetta and chard bring another, deeply savory and just-bitter-enough layer to balance the sweetness of the squash. Everything is held together by a fontina-laced béchamel, that glorious white sauce that Italians sometimes insist they invented and the French claim as their own. (Frankly, I don't care who started it. I'm just grateful someone did.)

The Pumpkin-Sage Filling

I'll admit that pumpkin purée on its own can taste like the ghost of a vegetable that once knew sweetness. It needs help. Specifically, heat, salt, and fat. That's where browned butter and shallots enhance this filling. The butter brings nutty richness, and the shallots and sage perfume the whole thing with that earthy, woodsy scent that instantly reads as "fall."

The egg whisked in at the end does more than enrich the filling; it stabilizes the mixture so it bakes up custardy instead of collapsing. 

The Swiss Chard and Pancetta

The buttery pumpkin layer paired with the silky béchamel alone can be too much of a good thing—rich on rich, soft on soft. That's where the pancetta and Swiss chard layer steps in to add balance and contrasting texture to the lasagna. The pancetta should render until golden and crisp at the edges but still retain a slight chew in the center—that balance of textures keeps it from disappearing into the mix and offers a satisfying counterpoint to the tender pasta and creamy fillings. As it cooks, the rendered fat forms the foundation for flavoring the garlic, thyme, and red pepper flakes that infuse the greens. The red pepper flakes are optional but recommended—I think the subtle sting of heat keeps this dish interesting.

Once the aromatics are fragrant, add the chard, cover the pan, and let it steam until wilted and tender. Then uncover and continue cooking until most of the liquid has evaporated. You want the greens supple and concentrated, not soggy. The chard's mild, earthy bitterness and the pancetta's salt and savory flavor cut cleanly through the pumpkin's sweetness and the béchamel's richness, so every bite is balanced, layered, and far from "baby food" territory.

The Béchamel (or Besciamella, Depending on Who You Ask)

Some people claim to hate white sauce, and I'll never understand that. Béchamel is a culinary sleight of hand that transforms just a handful of humble ingredients (butter, flour, milk) into silk. The French call it one of their mother sauces. Italians also claim besciamella as their own, and fold it into almost every lasagna north of Rome. I'm not here to mediate that particular custody battle, but I will say this: In the right hands, béchamel is not bland. Here it's the creamy bridge between the sweet pumpkin, the bitter greens, and the soft pasta sheets.

A classic béchamel is all about ratios. Too much flour, and you're eating paste; too little, and you're basically pouring milk. For lasagna, a thinner béchamel is ideal—about a tablespoon of flour per cup of milk—because it will thicken more as it bakes. My version includes shredded fontina, a rich Alpine cheese that's buttery, slightly nutty, and gloriously melty. A pinch of nutmeg ties it all together, echoing the sweetness in the pumpkin.

If you've ever whisked a roux in a panic, worried about lumps, relax—béchamel is more forgiving than its reputation suggests. Melt the butter, stir in the flour, then whisk in the milk slowly; a bit of thorough whisking is all it takes to ensure a smooth sauce.

Choosing and Treating the Pasta

As Daniel covers in his lasagna Bolognese recipe, you don't have to be a martyr about noodles to make great lasagna. Yes, homemade fresh lasagne rolled from an egg-rich dough are the apex—silky, pliant, and undeniably special—but they are not a requirement for a really great lasagna. Supermarkets carry increasingly solid fresh (and even frozen) lasagna sheets that deliver delicious results with far less effort, and dried pasta, including dry no-boil noodles, can absolutely work here too.

Lasagna noodles aren't meant to be al dente like spaghetti. They should relax past al dente in a baked dish so a fork glides through with minimal resistance. That's why decent dried pasta can hang with fresh in this context—it tolerates the "beyond al dente" treatment nicely.

If you're up for making dough, Niki Achitoff-Gray's fresh-pasta recipe is a great place to start. One advantage of DIY sheets is control over thickness. Aim for the six or seven setting on a pasta machine. This is thin enough to keep the layers delicate, but not so thin that they veer into translucent territory and get lost in the assembled dish. Cut rolled sheets into manageable rectangles, about eight inches long. Here are some tips for cooking each type of pasta.

Par-cooking and holding fresh homemade pasta: Boil in well-salted water until just done with the faintest chew (it'll soften more in the oven). Chill immediately in an ice bath, drain thoroughly, and rub each sheet lightly with oil to prevent sticking. If you're staging assembly, layer the oiled sheets on a parchment-lined tray with plastic wrap between layers; they'll hold for a few hours without fusing into a tragic pasta brick.

Using store-bought fresh or frozen sheets: Treat them like homemade: quick boil, ice bath, drain, light oil, and hold. They're a fast path to silky, pliant layers.

Using dried pasta: Boil just shy of al dente, then ice-bath, drain, oil, and hold as above. Dried pasta shines in baked applications because it finishes to that tender, sliceable texture we want.

Using no-boil noodles (yes, they're welcome here): For the most reliable results, give them a head start: Soak in warm water for about 30 minutes to pre-hydrate, then pat dry and assemble. This prevents chalky centers and lets the sheets meld with the fillings instead of stealing moisture from your béchamel.

However you get there—hand-rolled, store-bought fresh, classic dried, or no-boil—the goal is to have thin, supple sheets that play nicely with the pumpkin, chard, and fontina béchamel.

The Assembly

When assembling the lasagna, the goal is to build a delicate strata where each layer is balanced. Too much pumpkin and it's baby food; too much béchamel and it's a dairy-based soup. Each layer should be thin enough to see a hint of pasta through it. I layer in this order: pumpkin, chard, béchamel, cheese, repeat. Finish with more béchamel, a snowfall of Parmigiano, and a scatter of fontina.

Bake until the top is bronzed and bubbling, then—and this is the hardest part—let it rest for at least 20 minutes. It needs time to set, so you can cut a proper slice instead of scooping out a delicious but runny mess. This lasagna may be a labor of love, but it's one that pays off in golden, bubbling dividends.