I was enamored by the living creature in my arms, of course, but what I remember the most was the unconditional, undiscriminating love I felt for everyone else in the room, too. Andy, my parents, and my in-laws. My sister, mom to a newborn herself. My brother. Even the nurse, Carmen, who was first assigned to me. I had an irrepressible urge to tell this woman I loved her, even as she stood over me like a drill sergeant and demanded that I say my good-byes and start thinking about breast-feeding this baby immediately. I hadn’t retained a single piece of information from What to Expect, but it didn’t matter. Phoebe was a champion eater right from the start—no book required. Andy slept on a cot all four nights in the hospital—adrenaline was outpacing exhaustion, so we didn’t care yet—but on the day after Phoebe was born, he went home to shower and prepare the nest.
About this nesting thing: I’m not sure why I wasn’t overwhelmed by the mysterious primal urge during those last few days of pregnancy to cook up batches of stews and chili for the freezer like all my friends had. In fact, I didn’t even know that this phenomenon existed. (Perhaps if I had bothered to read my What to Expect, I would have found a description of it in the FAQ section, right there after the question on “Frequency of Urination.”) But again, it didn’t really matter because when Andy went home—he ran five miles in record time, mopped and Swiffered the apartment, changed the sheets, and cooked up a huge batch of turkey Bolognese for the freezer. U2’s “It’s a Beautiful Day” was on the stereo, a song he said he didn’t even like that much but couldn’t resist putting on repeat while he sautéed his onions and browned the meat, before racing back to the hospital to attend a swaddling class. (Holy Christ could he swaddle!)
A stash of frozen soup and stews: Money in the bank!
We didn’t know what to expect when we brought Phoebe home three days later—we had no idea what we were doing. I remember that first night, putting a sleeping Phoebe in her bassinet next to our bed and asking Andy, “So what do you think? Should we set an alarm for three hours from now so we can wake her up to nurse?” An alarm! Little did I know I wouldn’t need to set another alarm clock for eight years. But we knew we could always expect one thing. A kick-ass home-cooked dinner, only about a three-minute thaw away.
Three Nesting Recipes
All good nesting recipes share three main characteristics: They are quick to make, they are easy to double or triple, and they freeze well. We freeze all our sauces, soups, and stews in flattened zipper-lock bags so they are easier to thaw under running water when you need them quickly.
Lazy Bolognese
Though Andy grew up with this recipe, the credit for the name goes to one of my blog readers (identified only as “jillybean”). Before she came along, it was known only as turkey Bolognese. Not to be confused with a real Bolognese, like Marcella Hazan’s, which requires lots of time on the stovetop to allow for seemingly gallons of liquid (wine, milk, tomato juice) to be absorbed by the meat. But Lazy Bolognese is just the right speed for New Babydom. Later there will be time for Marcella. Total time: 35 minutes
Few glugs of olive oil
1 small onion, chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
Salt and pepper to taste
1 pound ground beef or turkey (if using turkey, dark meat is always preferable)
1 heaping tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon fennel seeds
1 teaspoon sugar
¼ cup wine (red or white preferably dry)
1 28-ounce can diced tomatoes, in their juices (or tomato puree)
8 shakes of dried oregano
1 pound tubular pasta (penne, rigatoni, ziti)
Freshly grated Parmesan cheese, for serving
Add the oil to a medium saucepan set over medium-low heat. Add onion, garlic, pepper flakes, and salt and pepper and cook for about 2 minutes, until onion is slightly wilted.
Push everything to one side of the pot, turn up heat slightly, and add the ground meat, breaking it up with a fork as it browns. Once most of the pink is gone, stir it together with onion mixture.
Add the tomato paste, fennel seeds, sugar, and wine and stir everything together. Raise the heat to medium-high and cook until most of the liquid has been absorbed, about 5 minutes. Stir in the tomatoes and oregano. Bring the sauce to a boil and then turn heat to low and simmer uncovered for at least 30 minutes and up to 1 hour.
If you are freezing for later, let the sauce cool at this point and then ladle it into a freezer bag. If you are not freezing for later, while the sauce is simmering (or reheating), prepare the pasta according to package directions. Toss the drained pasta with sauce and serve in bowls topped with freshly grated Parmesan.
Turkey Chili
Serve in bowls with traditional toppings, or add the chili to tortilla chips, melt cheese on top, and eat dinner with your fingers from one plate. Who said I’m not a class act? Total time: 45 minutes
1 large onion, chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
Few glugs of olive oil
1 pound ground turkey (dark meat is always preferable) or beef
Salt and pepper to taste
4 tablespoons chili powder
1 28-ounce can diced tomatoes
1 teaspoon oregano
1/8 teaspoon cayenne
1 bay leaf
¼ teaspoon cinnamon (crucial)
1 14-ounce can black beans, drained
Over medium-low heat, sauté the onion and garlic in the oil about 3 minutes. Turn up the heat to medium-high and brown the meat until it loses its pink color. Add salt, pepper, and the chili powder—get it sizzly so the spices get cooking—and then add the tomatoes and the remaining spices. Turn down the heat, simmer for 10 to 15 minutes, and add the beans. Cook for another 5 minuets, oruntil the beans are warmed through. Serve with white rice and any combination of the following: avocado chunks, shredded cheddar cheese, chopped fresh cilantro, sour cream.
Butternut Squash Soup with Apples
We first found a version of this soup in one of the Barefoot Contessa cookbooks. Ina Garten says she first found it in The Silver Palate. Is there any wonder why it’s a favorite in our house? Our twist on the recipe is adding all the garnishes at the end. Total time: 60 minutes
1 medium onion, chopped
Few glugs of olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
Leaves from 1 sprig fresh thyme
1 tablespoon curry powder (optional)
1/8 teaspoon cayenne
1 butternut squash (about 2 pounds), peeled, halved, seeded, and cut into 1-inch cubes; if you can find pre-chopped squash, by all means, go for it (you want about 4½ cups of squash cubes)
2 apples (Fuji, Macintosh, or Cortland preferred, but just about any except Red Delicious will work), peeled, cored, and cut into chunks
3½ cups or more chicken broth
Garnishes: Chopped walnuts, chopped chives, sour cream
In a Dutch oven or a large stockpot, brown the onion in oil until wilted, about 3 minutes. Add salt and pepper, thyme, curry powder, and cayenne. Stir in the squash and apples, then add enough broth to cover it all by about a half inch. Bring to a boil and then simmer uncovered for 30 minutes—checking and adding water or broth every 10 minutes to make sure liquid stays at about the same level—until the squash is tender. Turn off the heat and puree with a handheld immersion blender or in batches in the blender (see warning), adding more water or broth until it reaches desired consistency.
Top with walnuts, chives, and sour cream.
Warning: To avoid an explosion, keep the lid on the blender slightly ajar as you whirl. You should do this anytime you are blending hot liquid.
Tip: Three other soups that fit into the nesting category: Chicken Soup with Orzo, Tomato and White Bean, Beluga Lentil with Anchovies
WHO’S GONNA KNOW?
I hated telling people I was pregnant. We were one of those annoying couples who didn’t breathe a word to anyone in the fir
st trimester, which made me dread being out to dinner with friends when the waiter would appear to ask us for our drink orders. I never handled it correctly–lying and stammering (“I ran five miles today and feel so dehydrated”) and almost always giving away the secret without wanting to. My solution was to have people over for dinner instead. When the guests arrived, I would already have poured a glass of wine for myself, which was in fact a cold glass of Welch’s white grape juice. (Or, as Andy called it, “my late-harvest Riesling.”) When I told my sister the big news the first thing she said was, “But you were drinking wine last week!” It’s been almost a decade and I think she’s still mad at me for the deception. Once I went public, things were a little easier in the drinking department, except for the fact that . . . I couldn’t drink. This was not as tragic then as it would have been, say, a few years later when I really needed a glass of wine to buffer the chaos of work from the chaos of home, but I still craved the ritual. When we were on vacation, just at my thirteen-week mark, Andy mixed me the greatest virgin cocktail, which we named the 1080 (after the number of the house where we stayed): It was a mixture of apricot nectar, lime juice, club soda, strawberries, and a handful of fresh juicy sliced peaches (measurements pretty much to taste), and it was so good that whenever the peaches are good enough (even when I’m not pregnant) I mix one up and raise a glass with my fourth-grader. (How is it possible that she is in fourth grade?) Then I give her the 1080 and pour myself a real drink.
May 2002
Getting a Noncook on Board
The first time the concept of “division of labor” really registered for me was about two weeks into motherhood at 2:00 A.M., when my swaddled little newborn, as warm and delicious as a burrito, decided to finally wake up and make herself heard . . . all night long. Since I was breast-feeding, I was obviously going to have to be the one who had to wake up three, four, five times a night. And what seemed equally obvious to me was that if I was the one breast-feeding around the clock, then Andy should be the one up with her whenever she was awake and not hungry. This was so obvious—in both our eyes—that it wasn’t even discussed. But there were thornier issues down the road, when we were both back to work and Devika, our babysitter, would call in sick. It was never quite as simple as the alternating tag-you’re-it approach. Often it didn’t matter whose “turn” it was or who stayed home last time; it came down to whose day was more unmissable. Who had meetings they couldn’t skip and, since we were both in publishing, deadlines they couldn’t blow. There was no cut-and-dried approach to it, but neither one of us was ever considered the Assumed Stay-at-Homer.
Another big issue was Morning Duty, that is, who would wake up with the baby at five-thirty or six or whatever ungodly hour she decided was the best time to welcome the day. Because this responsibility wasn’t something as small and unpredictable as, say, picking up more milk or emptying the diaper genie, we fell into a strict alternating routine: Andy wakes up Monday, Jenny Tuesday, Andy Wednesday, and so on. Though we never actually drafted up our “Morning Duty Constitution,” we referred to this document as though it were signed in blood, framed, and hanging on our living room wall. My guess is that we fell out of sequence fewer than ten times in six years. If it was your turn to be on duty, you couldn’t get out of it no matter how hard you tried, how tired you were, or how hung over. I remember one night I came home from a dinner out with friends—a dinner that included a gin-and-tonic and a half bottle of wine. Andy, who was sitting on the couch watching The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, turned to me with an evil glint in his eye, and asked, “Psyched for Morning Duty?”
All of these tasks were negotiations to some degree because, with the exception of breast-feeding, both of us were perfectly capable of performing the task at hand no matter how much we dreaded doing so. But what would’ve happened if this hadn’t been the case—if we hadn’t both been perfectly capable of executing the task at hand? What happens when one member of the couple dreads the task at hand so much that it is actually causing more resentment than it is alleviating? And what happens when the task at hand is not as petty and expendable as putting your clothes in the hamper (instead of beside the hamper) or swinging by CVS for more wipes? What if we’re talking about a duty that sometimes seems much bigger and more relentless than all the other duties combined?
In other words, what happens if you have a spouse who is unwilling, incapable, or shows absolutely zero interest in cooking dinner for the family? And what if you are like that, too, but somehow the responsibility has fallen squarely on your shoulders anyway, every night, all week long, all year long, with no end in sight until your youngest is safely nestled in her first college dorm room?
I am no relationship expert, but I can tell you that there’s a higher chance that your Dinner: A Love Story will become Dinner: A Simmering Resentment Story. I would say that of all the private questions I get from my readers (as opposed to publicly posted on the site for all to read) the one I get the most is this: How do I get my spouse on board to cook when he/she has no interest and/or skills in the kitchen?
I have several pieces of advice for readers in this situation, not one of which requires a legal document to execute. Because if you think about it, there are so many things besides the actual making of dinner that go into making dinner happen. Some of you out there might feel like me—that the braising and the chopping and the simmering is the easy part, dare I say, the fun part. It’s all the little satellite duties that orbit the meal that fill me with dread. So here are a few duties the Cook should feel free to outsource to the Noncook:
1. Make a decision!
There is nothing I appreciate more than getting an email from Andy at three in the afternoon requesting chicken with Brussels sprouts. Or when Phoebe comes home from school and begs for chicken soup. Just because I have four thousand meal ideas recorded in my diary doesn’t necessarily mean I’m brimming with inspiration on any given Tuesday (I’ve yet to figure out why not). Give someone else the job of thinking up what to cook, so you can relax and just concentrate on the fun part.
Of course, for some people—especially the kinds of people who would never describe cooking as “the fun part”—this is the opposite of good advice. At first blush, the idea of your Noncook requesting spaghetti and clams might sound about as helpful as your boss requesting no sugar next time you go around the block for his double skim latte. But for so many cooks, the decision making, narrowing down, think-work part of dinner can often be the most paralyzing stage of the process, so having a partner in any phase of the planning helps make the meal more of a shared goal than an it’s-coming-no-matter-what burden. Even if the Noncook never lifts a finger in the kitchen, it’s nice to know he or she was sharing your stress. Which brings me to my next piece of advice.
2. Get home on time.
If you can’t get home in time to cook, get home in time to eat. I know this is a tricky one—with demanding work schedules and the kids’ early bedtimes, but have the Noncook earmark a night or two during the week when he or she knows for a fact that he or she can get home in time to appreciate your fine effort. It’s the least he or she can do.
3. Clean-up duty.
Well, not true. As mentioned above, the Noncook should also be on Clean-up Duty if you got your act together enough to braise a freaking pork loin for the whole family.
4. Praise the pork loin.
Also on the list of duties for the Noncook (and I’m afraid this one is absolutely nonnegotiable), he or she must praise that braised pork loin, as well the braiser of the pork loin, up and down and all around until braiser blushes with pride and appreciation, prompting unappreciative children at the table to ask night after night, “Why do you always say that to each other?” Praise is motivating. And no praise is bad for the soul.
5. Take control of the heart sinkers.
By this I mean, take care of all the things in the kitchen that routinely make the Cook’s heart sink: discovering the dishes in the dishwasher are clean but unloade
d; realizing just as you sit down to dinner that no one has anything to drink or that the soy sauce / ketchup / napkins are not on the table. I think the best birthday present anyone could ever give me would be a little robot that automatically took care of all of these duties, none of which individually take up a lot of time but which collectively can send you spiraling into dark places.
6. Master one meal.
You don’t need to know how to make fifty different dinners to be a major contributor to family dinner. You just have to know one or maybe even two. (Remember my dad and his chicken cutlets?) Teach your Noncook the easiest recipe in the world, like Baked Sausage with Apples, Potatoes, and Onions and just accept the fact that you’ll eat it at least once a week for the next eighteen years. (The Greek-Style Shrimp with Feta might also fall into this so-easy-a-monkey-could-make-it category, as would any of the nesting freezer meals, especially if they are already cooked and frozen and just in need of a reheat.)
Baked Sausage with Apples, Potatoes, and Onions
Dinner: A Love Story Page 9
