It’s 7:36 p.m. as I lift the cover off of the pan to check if the chicken is ready. The chickpea penne is on its last minute of boiling on the next burner, and I want to time the dinner perfectly.
After draining the pasta, I pour the saffron chicken cooked in honey, and lemon broth over the pasta, sprinkle thick cuts of parmesan cheese and tell Dan that dinner is ready.
I got home later last night; it is not an unusual occurrence in my life, although, during the summer, it is less frequent. I posted a quick picture of our dinner on my Instagram story- it’s not that beautiful of a dish, to be honest, and the quick picture won’t be published anywhere- in fact- I probably won’t even share the recipe here. In a world where we choose to share pieces of our life on social media, I chose to share how I show, and in return, know love.
In my life, food has always been a deliverance of love, and it is a feeling I continue in my home.
During a monumental snow storm in 1998, my dad and I drove in his white jeep grand Cherokee to Elmont to shovel my grandfather’s driveway and at the end, he rewarded us with a meal he just “cooked up” in his kitchen. From Elmont, we drove over to my great aunt and uncle’s house, where after we shoveled, we were met with homemade cookies. Food served as a way to express gratitude.
When I close my eyes and think of the holidays, I see my Aunt Susan at Easter, in Stiletto heels and a midi skirt, checking the prime rib while my mom furiously stirred mashed potatoes and my Aunt Jackie set the table. Each woman inherently knew their task, a shared experience only sisters have. Even today, my favorite moments are the ones where my brother-in-law and I are at the grill after a boat day, or juggling all the different platters before we serve Christmas Dinner.
On nights when it was just my mom, she would make spaghetti and clams and let us eat dinner in the den where we’d watch Rikki Lake until Friends came on. I still crave that dinner.
Cooking, as an act, has been boiled down to a chore in our world, and we are missing how deeply loving it is. To cook is to provide sustenance to the people around you. To create a dish is to give your time, and in my life, time is the greatest gift. It is not about making the best meal or being perfect- it’s about having a shared experience. And, maybe that’s what we all miss because we get home late or have a bad day at work. We miss that all that happens in the 8 hours between when we leave home and return doesn’t matter, really. Life is nuanced, cooking doesn’t have to be.
Cooking is the embodiment of presence, and I’ll continue to share recipes that are easy to do so that you can feel this love too.