A recipe or two to sort…
I am at work; it is lunch time; we are talking about…what a surprise!…food.
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We all have different approaches to cooking.
Susan tries new recipes constantly.
Pam often cooks tried-and-true recipes that have always worked for her and her family.
At our house, we like to find new recipes and weave them into family meals. But then that becomes a rotation, and suddenly, I realize we are eating the same things—marinated chicken thighs in barbecue sauce; pork cutlets and rice bake; chicken in Alfredo sauce; fajitas or tacos; yada yada yada—over and over again, a two-weekly rota.
Beth, who is younger, whose boys have busy schedules, whose partner (like Beth) works long hours, laughs and says her crew eats the same menus every week.
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Susan mentions that she has a basket full of recipes to try, overwhelming in its depth and breadth.
I have one of those recipe piles, too. It is so unwieldy that, when I pull it out to sort and consider, I get discouraged within minutes. There’s good stuff here! I think. But the digging process is too intimidating.
I pack up the loose recipes and put them away. Another day, Scarlett.
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The work conversation stays with me. We ARE in a rut, eating-wise; I AM in a rut, cooking-wise. I love to cook, but I’m also tired of cooking all the time. The need to plan and execute dinner is like a heavy pin in the fabric of the day, securing me to the kitchen every late afternoon.
Not exactly a heavy burden, to be true, but it is also true that I am bored with what I’ve been cooking.
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Food waste is a problem (https://foodprint.org/issues/the-problem-of-food-waste/ ), and I have committed to being much, much better about using leftovers in creative ways. We slog through the week, eating wholesome, possibly unexciting, food. We have deluxe grilled cheeses and use up three packages of sliced cheese, each with only two or three slices remaining. We use the elderly tomato and lettuce leaves in tacos. Thursday night, completely uninspired, thinking, Scrambled eggs?, I realize that, in the refrigerator, we have Sunday’s red sauce in one container and rigatoni noodles in another. I dump all of that in the sturdy white casserole, top it with grated mozz, and stick it in the oven. It roasts until everything bubbles.
Mark has seconds.
Jim heats up a frozen pizza.
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Most of my recipes-to-try come from magazines or newspapers. (I love recipes I’ve found in the New York Times Sunday food supplement. However, the supplement is printed on what I’m guessing is 11” by 11” paper, while magazines are more standard in page-size—roughly 8.5” by 11”.
The magazine pages fit nicely into a binder. The supplement pages do not.
I like to binder up potential recipes to make them look neat and tidy while I wait to try them.
The supplement recipes un-tidy the whole mess.)
I clip and save recipes on a weekly basis. I sort recipes, maybe, every two years.
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A gentle spring rain falls on Friday morning when I finally drag myself out of bed, just before 7 a.m. I take care of my morning must-do’s, and then I pull stacks of recipes out of the cookbook cabinet. There are whole magazines, most, luckily, open to the recipe I thought, whenever I read that issue, would be great to try. But of course, I can’t just tear that recipe out and binder it.
I have to look through the whole magazine because I COULD be missing our next new favorite dish or dessert.
There are handwritten recipes on looseleaf paper.
There are two paper-ream-sized boxes filled with recipes plucked from magazines and newspapers, the rest of that issue, thankfully, recycled. Pages and pages of things I thought, at some time within the past two years, we might like to eat.
I will NEVER sort all of those this morning.
I settle on a new process: I will take an inch of saved recipes off the top and push the rest away.
I will sort through those top-inch guys, recycling the ‘What was I thinking here?’ ones. I will put the possibles in a binder, and I will cook from the binder for the next two weeks or so.
We’ll rate the recipes, a la famille.
I’ll toss the ones that miss the acceptable mark, incorporate the others into a ‘keeper binder.’
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Here are some recipes that might make the grade:
- The Greatest Grilled Turkey (I clipped this from the October 2021 edition of AllRecipes, probably thinking we might try it for Thanksgiving. We did not. But Mark is a turkey-fiend; he’d love grilled turkey any time. Maybe Father’s Day?)
- Pork Ragout. (This one is handwritten—copied from a borrowed cookbook, maybe? Why didn’t I PRINT a copy? Still, it sounds good, and it would use up the last of 2023’s frozen tomatoes. I just need, next meat-shopping trip, a boneless pork shoulder.)
- Pernil, another pork shoulder recipe. (This is Puerto Rican in origin, and the marinade includes sour orange juice. I don’t know that I have access to sour orange juice, but Von Diaz, who adapted the recipes, writes that I can substitute equal parts lime and orange juice. An overnight marinade, a long oven-roast. I think the boyos might really like Pernil.)
- Carrot tart with a puff pastry. (Jim, of course, will not eat this, but Mark might. It melds ricotta and feta cheese, uses a nice blend of spices, serves everything up on a puff pastry base.)
- Roasted chicken. (This uses bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs, and I have several little tubs of these in the Big Freezer. It also incorporates bread into the mix…kind of a sheet pan deal; after the chicken has roasted for 25 minutes or so, I am to sprinkle torn bread chunks into the pan, toss them gently in the ooze-y chicken fat, and continue roasting until the chicken sizzles. Then I make a brown-sugar based sauce and drizzle some over the chicken and bread. The rest of the sauce goes on each plate, for dipping, which, recipe writer Eric Kim says, “is divine.”)
There are others—an onion tart, air fryer salmon, a simple recipe for roasting a halved chicken, a couple of cake recipes (one chocolate, of course; another that calls for five large eggs and 7-Up instead of any leavening. The 7-Up cake is baked in a Bundt pan.)
There’s the updated version of the New York Times no-knead bread, which we love, and which always reminds me of Kim O., who, before her cancer finally felled her, mastered that recipe. She generously bestowed fresh, crusty loaves on all of her friends.
And there’s a cinnamon bun recipe that does NOT use yeast—these buns are ready in an hour. Jim cocks an interested eyebrow at that one.
There’s a quick recipe for cheddar biscuits, a pork and wild rice casserole method, a way to make breaded boneless pork chops in the air fryer.
Enough for now. I go to get the three-hole punch.
I reject and recycle several recipes (Why did I save these???), and I stack the rest of the jumble and hide it, back in the cookbook cupboard.
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There’s a history, I think, to a person’s cooking life. When kids are little, when the family is on the young side, cooking is a requirement. It can offer joy, but often the pressure of churning out food day after day, of feeding these kids before rehearsal, of making sure the meal can be heated up for the kid who has practice,–often all of those logistics dissolves the joy and congeals the act of cooking into a kind of gelled obligation.
Meal prep becomes mindless, necessary, uninspiring.
But before that family developed…oh, think of what we might call ‘courting meals’—meals where one half of a newish couple trots out their best recipes, their special, treats.
So, the stuffed pork chops—chops that the striving young person can’t really afford, but hey!—sizzle in the tiny, apartment-sized oven, while she rips up crispy lettuce, carefully slices a hard-boiled egg, sprinkles crumbled bacon on top. There’s a creamy white dressing for that salad. Potatoes bake, too, halved, with butter melting into criss-crossed fissures.
For dessert there is a tray of homemade brownies, vanilla bean ice cream, thick caramel syrup.
It’s chancy, this first shared, home-cooked meal. These are the things that are special to her. What if he doesn’t like them? What if he has more of a high-brow, la-di-dah, kind of palate, if he wants a slender fish fillet, Brussels sprouts, and rice pilaf?
The meal is shared, the reaction recorded and studied.
Maybe they move forward, this couple, and maybe they slide apart, the meal a test, a measure, a reckoning: we fit, or no, in fact, we don’t.
If they move forward, it may be to another meal, cooked by the other partner: another expose’ of what’s meaningful, another test.
Cooking in those days is intense and essential; much rides on those early culinary adventures.
That kind of cooking can lead to the bond that leads to commitment, and maybe to family, and then to the pressurized meals produced when jobs and extracurriculars and the navigation needed around individual tastes (They won’t eat tuna or sauerkraut! The child does not eat ANY kind of vegetable! She is not a fan of shellfish in any shape or form!) govern everyday life.
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The pressure-cooker days finally pass; time becomes more fluid; there’s room for experimentation. Then cooking becomes a creative exercise….at least some of the time.
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It doesn’t ALWAYS have to be new, though. Some of those courtship recipes, for instance, may have become family favorites. Or, if the courtships never did lead to partnerships, the individual has carved out a personal cuisine, with favorites and adventures and old faithfuls.
Life would be less rich, for sure, without long-simmered red sauce; and how could we celebrate Christmas without Grandma Kirst’s cinnamon buns?
Trying the new, maintaining the meaningful: that becomes the culinary challenge.
And also, if your heart is Scottish-thrifty, using the things on hand and in season.
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Tonight, Mark has an obligation, so James and I, both hotcake lovers, will try a new recipe for something he loves: cinnamon pancakes, easily switched to gluten-free status.
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Tomorrow, Mark and I will eat with very dear friends we haven’t seen since well before winter reared its blustery head. I’m bringing dessert, and there are almost enough berries to make a pie. James and I will stop and get some strawberries, freshly in season, to round that out, and I will use a pie crust recipe I’d had since the eighties—one that makes enough crust for five pies, a crust that is always flaky.
And we have some M&M’s left from Jim’s party, too; I’ll make some oatmeal peanut butter cookies; those are chocolate-studded–the M&M’s rounded out with a handful of morsels, but nary a drop of gluten is involved.
The cookie recipe came from the Columbus, Ohio, Dispatch, circa 2005, but it sat, unappreciated for fifteen years, until gluten-free life made it attractive.
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What a lovely, what a privileged, problem to have—enough resources to cook however and whatever we happen to feel like eating. Too many people would love to open the freezer and say to themselves, “What do I feel like cooking tonight? I’m so sick of….”
I put the new recipe binder on the shelf, and, as I head to plop the cookie dough onto trays, I think that every two weeks, when I sort some new recipes, I should also write a check to the local soup kitchen.