I started out last year with the ambitious goal of making ALL our meals at home–from scratch Ambitious is an insufficient descriptor for this goal, as I was also writing a book, remodeling my house, and actually raising my daughters.
The goal was short-lived. I did, however, cook five of our seven meals a week from scratch for the entirety of 2022, and by the fall, I was burnt out.
It wasn’t so much the cooking as it was the planning, shopping, prepping, and thanklessness of it all. The more creative I got, the more work it was for everyone—nothing kills the vibe of a chill Sunday night in like peeling a thousand garlic gloves.
Cooking made me grumpy. It is a huge undertaking that no one really noticed. My family’s lunch and dinner miraculously appeared every day at noon and five in the afternoon, and my three-year-olds never thought wow, mom made mushroom broth from scratch and started dicing ginger and onions at 7am so we could eat this creamy Indian spinach we love so much. We should show her our gratitude by not smearing our spinach all over the dining table.
Every mother is (a) nodding her head in solidarity or (b) rolling her eyes and thinking, oh, that’s the way it is—you gotta roll with the punches.
The thing is, I made mushroom broth from scratch because I love the simmer of slow food. For me, layering the flavors of curries and cakes until they form something delectable is an unmatched satisfaction. I love the healing effects we have seen on my daughter’s gut. I attribute much of my daughters’ stable moods and long attention spans so the way we eat around here.
While it’s rarely convenient, it’s always worth it. I just had just forgotten that truth until, in December, I hosted a big family dinner for Vivienne’s third birthday party.
I blanched greens and sauteed them in garlic and oil. I creamed cashews and stirred the dairy free goodness into a pot of grits. I blended miso and herbs from the garden into a salad dressing, and I baked an olive oil chocolate cake.
And then I watched…
I watched my parents and in-laws; my husband and my daughters shovel spoonfuls into their mouths. My parents may have been the only people at the table who thought about the planning and the effort it takes to feed a dozen people a from scratch meal, but everyone ate, and talked, and laughed, and left my table more nourished than when they arrives.
In a rushed world, slow food is a gift–even when the people receiving it don’t realize it.
I’ve found my cooking mojo again, and here’s what I’m loving these days.
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