LONDON — In the last few months, I have been using this column to cook dishes in the oven using a single pot or pan. The inspiration was drawn from European classics, such as pasta with ragù, paella or moussaka, all of which come with long traditions attached to them and clear methods of preparation. None of these dishes, however, use the single-pan-and-oven method.
Though it may look like an unnecessary and pretty precarious route to take, messing with tradition like that, I seem not to be able to stop myself. I have always had a mix of admiration and distrust for dishes that are “institutions,” knowing that they have withstood the test of time but also questioning the preciousness that seems to surround them. Claims of authenticity drive me up the walls.
So it is admiration that pushes me to have a go at the classics, and distrust that leads me to think that I can have a play.
In the case of soft polenta, though, I was initially more reticent. Cooking polenta was a stove-side ritual in our house when I was growing up. My father, who is from an Italian family, didn’t cook it very often, but, when he did, he watchfully and continuously stirred the pot with great patience, making sure the polenta turned out perfectly smooth and creamy, and didn’t stick to the bottom of the pan. The polenta was then used as a base on which a simple sauce, made with minced beef, garlic, diced carrots and a tomato or two, was served.
For me, the essence of the dish was this silkiness, punctuated by the textural sauce that sat on top without being stirred through. Every bite would include a bit of the smooth with a bit of the rough, the two never completely mixed up together.
Serve for brunch with a zesty green salad.CreditAndrew Scrivani for The New York Times
This method, and the way it is served, had to be abandoned for my one-tray version; the “sauce” would mix with the polenta before the polenta even cooked. I have to give credit here to my test kitchen colleague Noor Murad, who had the foresight to turn polenta on its head by cooking it in the oven instead of the stovetop. If it was up to me, I probably wouldn’t have left the familiar safety of the pot and the wooden spoon.
The result is a rather bumpy type of polenta, full of textures and surprises, and nothing like the silky variety of my childhood. With runny eggs embedded in it, as well as lots of greens and chunks of cheese, it is wonderful in a very different way from my father’s polenta, rich and generous and gratifyingly complex.
It also offers another proof that rethinking and reinventing beloved dishes isn’t an act of betrayal. There’s always room for more than one version of a great thing.
