When I envision myself in my highest form and at the height of my human powers, I’m at the grocery store (or I guess while I’m at it why not the farmers’ market) with a basket full of vegetables and legumes that announce themselves (you know the ones).
This version of myself has plans to prepare a nutritious, nourishing feast from “a nice recipe I just saw.” I want to have my shit together in the kitchen and I can’t seem to do it. Why are leeks intimidating and why did I ask for a Dutch oven for my 30th birthday if I’m not going to use it? The answer is Ina Garten. I love this woman. Her voice is soothing and her kitchen is perfect—it’s Container Store x food which I think is my sexual orientation. She makes me feel like I can (and should) cook anything.
Barefoot Contessa is medicine. That show was my studying companion in college and is still the yummiest thing to watch on a weekend morning. Ina makes me want to cook lamb. As she sears meat in her gigantic cream-colored Le Creuset, I am transported to a reality where I too can actually buy a leg of lamb and grapeseed oil and—without a moment of panic—create a stunning meal. “How easy is that?”
Try as I might, I can’t crack dinner. I get stressed and feel helpless—especially when I’m cooking for other people. Sometimes I try making a meal for me and my boyfriend all by myself and I get into a zone that we call “the dark place.” I’m working on it. When I eat alone there is no pressure. I’m dipping tortellini in ketchup and having the time of my life. I eat weird shit that I would never dare serve to another human being. And I like that! When other people are in the mix I must provide. My guests must love the food and love me and everything spirals pretty quickly.
For example (this is a story I’d like to walk out in comic form at some point, but for now):
One night I decided to make my boyfriend and roommate a lovely linguine with clam sauce. Things were going great. I had cooked the pasta to perfection and successfully saved some pasta water for the sauce (this felt very professional), one can of clams was in the pan and there was one more to go. I opened up the second can of clams and they were black. Yes, black. In some bizarre expression of panic, disappointment and denial I went ahead and dumped those murky, tar-colored clams onto my perfect pile of pasta…and then googled “are black clams OK to eat.” Chaos. Based on color and smell, we all decided it was best to dump the clams. We made new pasta and heated up frozen meatballs.
Breakfast and lunch are in my wheelhouse. They’re snacks that have a simple, central foundation (eggs, oatmeal, yogurt etc). I make great pancakes and omelets and really nice bits-of-everything-in-the-fridge spreads. I have fun plates and cute tiny bowls. I get creative with smoothies sometimes using apple cider as the base (it’s delicious). Dinner carries more pressure. It has to be well-rounded and warm and balanced and…cooked.
Some dinner “meals” I “make” and eat:
Now that you better understand my food situation you will appreciate the drama of what I’m about to declare. This winter I would like to do the following:
Make bread
Prepare a traditional Shabbat dinner: a full roast chicken, these Ottolenghi sumac potatoes my sister Alex makes, roasted vegetables, a kugel, and potentially two birds with one stone: challah. But I do want to make a raisin nut loaf for goal #1.
Cook fish. I love a delicate white fish and only eat it when I go to restaurants.
Bake something intricate that I put a lot of love and care into.
Your food can be your food! Dinner doesn’t have to look a certain way!!
I have no idea how my mother planned and prepared and served dinner like 90% of nights when I lived at home. Even when you don't account for all the meaning that goes into dinner, it's exhausting! I have to talk myself out of feeling like a bad wife when I don't prepare dinner with or for my husband