Book Club, Potluck, & Kid Dinner

The first week of April

Welcome to Home Cooking Diary, a monthly-ish newsletter on the journey of a home cook—the successes and failures alike. Cooking log, photo diary, and recipe recommender. We’re back after a bit of a haitus—thank you for being here.

If my last Week of Cooking entry seemed ambitious and organized, this one is the opposite. I often follow a “good” week with a “bad” one, and this was no exception. I had a fridge full of food that just wasn’t really working for me. Staring at the head of broccoli, I couldn’t think what I planned for it so I just steamed it instead, dressed it in lots of salt and olive oil and ate it alone in the middle of the night (Tycho, who normally loves broccoli, rejected it—been a rough week with my three-year-old). Some of the recipes I flagged (like Molly Baz’s Meatballs in Porridge) felt like too much. Too many ingredients to prep. Too…something—so I forgot about it in favor of things I cook without thinking—like 7-minute eggs, and Rancho Gordo beans in the Instant Pot that I heat up when I’m hungry and eat in a small bowl, dressed with Maldon sea salt and a little olive oil and vinegar. Not exactly a meal—humble yet special.

The end of the month is always busy. On the last Saturday we host Story Time, and just days later I host my monthly book club at our local bar (the last or first Monday). My book club sort of accidentally became a potluck. A friend who also loves to cook suggested it. It combines my two great loves: books and food. And I should be imbibing alcohol on a full belly. Win win! For Macaroni Monday, I figured most would bring a pasta-forward dish, so I decided to make Nonni’s Giambotta. It might be the wrong season for it, but I had a hankering. The hot dogs were a hit. To me the key to this dish is the capsicum—the savory, slightly spicy, green bell peppers. I only regret not including more hot dogs.

The Giambotta kept us eating for days. Tycho couldn’t get enough of it (the hot dogs of course), and I put it on toast, topped with a slightly jammy egg. Despite dragging all day after book club, I managed to make the aforementioned beans in the Instant Pot (the Flageolet bean), and I made a stock from the spent rotisserie chicken I bought at Adams the previous week.

On Wednesdays—my full-on solo parenting day/night—I try to have Kid Dinner so it doesn’t feel like an onslaught of childcare. It’s basically dinner and a playdate. We hosted—my friend Azeen came by with her 4-month-old daughter, Yara, who Tycho has a sweet bond with. Even though Yara doesn’t eat solids yet we still called it Kid Dinner. He kept asking if Yara was hungry yet and we kept explaining she still only drinks milk (though for the record she did end up sharing some of Tycho’s banana). I made Sarah Copeland’s Italian Wedding Soup with meatballs—a recipe Azeen shared with me the day before. It sounded so good and the recipe so simple. The meatballs consisted of ground turkey, lots of minced garlic (perhaps too much?), parmesan, and an egg. For the soup I used a combination of my rotisserie chicken stock from the day before, and water, with a little bit of Better Than Bouillon (feeling that my stock turned out slightly bland). At the end I added orzo and baby spinach. Tycho loved the orzo. It reminded me of how much I did as a child too. After Tycho was in bed I stood at the stove spooning each remaining piece of spinach out of the soup and into my mouth, knowing it would get slimy if left overnight. I normally do the same with pasta, but orzo is tiny enough that it holds up just fine I think.

The rest of the week thus far has been an attempt to stretch all of these leftovers as far as possible, having very little capacity for new cooking. Plus more seven-minute eggs accompanying some sort of toasted bread with lots and lots of butter and salt.

At first I didn’t see much here to justify a newsletter, but one of my local authors (crime writer Julia Dahl), popped in and we brainstormed ideas for a writers workshop at the bookstore. She said that as a writing instructor she emphasizes productivity—that just sitting down and writing is the important part—even if it’s trash or even if you think you have nothing to say, you never know what the exercise will yield. After she left, instead of going back to STAG DANCE, I opened my laptop back up and began the draft of what you’re reading now. Sometimes firing something off is the way to go. I’ve decided that overthinking is the bane of my existence. It’s rooted in fear of judgment and fear of not being accepted. I’m nearing forty, but still struggling to kick that toxic, self-recriminating thinking to the curb. And playing fast and loose might be the best way to keep this project I love alive. Sticking true to my vision of it as a diary—it’s not a magazine, not a website, not a aspiring memoir, but a simple series of journal entries on cooking—in as far as the act of cooking and reflection upon that humble yet worthy and vital task—renders broader aspects of my life in writing.

xAngie