As soon as I publicly announced my New Year’s blogolutions, it was only a matter of time before I just as publicly failed to execute any of them. If you had your money on week one in the When Does Maya Follow Through pool, you wouldn’t have been throwing it away—I do like to procrastinate.
I’d say it’s better late than never, but even this first installment in my cookbook chronicles is kind of a cheat—I made this dish in 2011.
I’ve got a hand-me-down dining room table in my living room that goes unused about 360 days a year. Shoved in the window, behind the couch, the table holds a plant and is the official location for my household’s Thrift Store Pile. I frequently try to envision the room without the table and its accompanying hutch and credenza that my family dumped into my house days after I signed the mortgage papers. In my imagination, the space is airy and brighter. It’s lovely. For ages, I couldn’t emotionally part with the set; it was Granny’s. It keeps me close to her. But in the past few years, I’ve realized that it’s not actually my Great Grandmother, it’s just her stuff. It’s not going to make her come alive in my house; in reality, I can’t even remember the pieces in her house. (I do, however, remember a doll toilet paper cover in her powder room quite vividly.) These days, it’s not a faux connection with the dead that keeps the dining room set in my house. Instead, it’s the idea of no giant table at all. With three leaves, the table can hold close to 14 people. And there may be nothing I love more than shoving one-too-many people in my living room for cozy dinner parties. While these gatherings are few and far between, they’re frequent enough to keep the table.
In what’s becoming something of a November tradition, I threw a soiree shortly after Thanksgiving. Borrowing from a friend of Maya’s, I loosely termed it “Friendsgiving.” I’d cook a turkey dinner that would be outside of the constraints of family Thanksgiving. My inspiration with a list of recipes compiled by Saveur. As is my habit when cooking for large parties, I made sure that each menu item was something I’d never made before and that I’d employ at least one or two new techniques. Just to add a little pressure to the event. (Why make it easy?)
When Jill and I are in each other’s company, the tiny bit of restraint we possess individually goes right out the window. (I shudder to think of the damage that would’ve been done had we known each other for more than a single semester in college.) Jill is joining me in New York tomorrow evening, so in preparation for her visit—and the reemergence of our not-so-hidden debaucherous tendencies—I decided that packing my lunches for the rest of the week might not be the worst idea in the world.
And considering the weekend’s eating agenda, making something cheap and healthy-ish seemed to be the way to go—it’s pretty much a given that nothing from either category will make an appearance on our plates once her plane lands.
I think that it’s entirely possible to train your body to love vegetables, but it takes discipline to love only vegetables. When I cook (sadly, this is a rare occurrence these days) I do my best to fill my kitchen with bright, healthy leafy greens. As a rule, produce is where my meals start. I look for inspiration in the seasonal and local selections and, when I’m in a zen state of mind, an entire meal is born.
Other times, when I lack that holistic mindset, I end up with a few side dishes, but nothing to tie them together. This happens more frequently than not, leaving me to crave animal fats not long after I’ve completed dinner. Sometimes, even daydreaming about a trip to Taco Bell while eating dinner.
I had noble intentions for my pie-making endeavors this year. I’d make the dough ahead of time, bake the night before, transport my perfect pastries in newly purchased bamboo steamers, and arrive, pulled together and on time—for once—for turkey dinner. Of course, in reality, I did none of these things.
I did wake up at 5:30 this morning, make the dough (poorly), put the pie in the oven only to realize, ten minutes later, that I’d forgotten to add lemon juice to the filling, and put the still-hot pie in a too-flimsy bag to transport it to Penn Station.
Every year, in the build-up to Thanksgiving, I swear that this is the year I’m going to host my own dinner. I love meals like this—the planning, the prep, the table loaded with so much food there’s hardly room for plates. The complete overkill. Plus, I’ve been in New York for a decade now, and I’ve never seen the Macy’s parade in person. (Though I have gone to watch them blow up the balloons the night before, and that should count for something.)
But as the holiday gets closer, the thought of spending it without my family becomes less and less appealing, and every year, without fail, I wind up at my aunt’s table with twenty other lunatics, stuffing ourselves silly. It’s probably for the best, anyway—if I were in charge, I’d still be menu-planning and shopping the day before, and we probably wouldn’t eat until midnight. And so, to aid my fellow time-management-challenged home cooks, here’s a little bit of last-minute inspiration from our archives.
I moved into my new apartment at the beginning of October. Except for the all-too-brief summer between my junior and senior years of college and, pre-New York, a few months spent in Bucharest, this is the first time I’ve lived on my own.
I kind of love it.
I have a love-hate relationship with brunch, and I often find myself writing a pro/con list in my head on the days that time allows such a luxury. My con list is long. Brunch food is often over-priced. If it’s good (locally-sourced, contains goat cheese and a patio is involved), there’s usually a wait. And there’s the sweat pants factor; by choosing to go to brunch, I’m committing to getting out of bed and moving forward in my day like a real life adult. Going out to brunch means that day-long Mad Men marathons get put on hold, and that I have to brush my teeth and leave the house. (Tell me I’m not alone in this.) And as a rule, the more awesome the brunch place, the farther it is from Clintonville. (Skillet, Katalina’s Cafe Corner, The Worthington Inn.)
There are cons to staying in, as well, though most of them deal with the lack of a bartender to deliver bloody marys and mimosas to my table. (There’s also the clean up process; I end up using every utensil in my house when I make brunch.) And when I dine at home, I’m much more likely to spill French press in my bed (where I’ll retreat post-meal for *just one more* Mad Men episode.)
Jill: Continental Airlines has last-minute fare sales between Columbus and New York City every other week. They’re typically released on Monday nights. One of the few constants in life, these sales have aided in many a long weekend for the both of us, sometimes in New York, sometimes in Columbus. We recently decided to take advantage of the fare to hold our first annual Itinerant Foodies Retreat.
Maya: I was already on board with the prospect of a long weekend in Ohio, but when Jill promised to comp half of the cost of my ticket in food, I was sold—it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
I made a thing. I’m honestly not quite sure what to call it, but look below. Isn’t it pretty? Kind of? (If you’re not put off by lentils.) (I was until I was at least 28 years old.)
Inspired by the flavors of the summer (and by using up some of my pantry basics), I pulled from three different recipes to create this culinary mash-up.
First up, the lentils. Using a quick google search for both “lentils” and “eggs” (I had both in excess), I found a recipe that would add the protein to my vegetarian meal. I omitted the fish sauce in this recipe, and added fresh basil and lemon juice. One pet peeve in veggie meals is that I’m usually hungry afterwards; this double dose took care of that problem.
