Blip, blip, blip
On the restorative effects of cooking
By now, you might be wondering where I’ve been hiding. After all, I fully intended to devote more time to this newsletter, which still feels like a breath of fresh air—my own little space to pour out my thoughts and musings on food, wine, and places close to my heart. Suffice it to say, the start of the year has been (very pleasantly) busy. Weekends have been spent immersed in wine, researching and writing three articles for the next issue of Family Owned, or engaging in the most inspiring conversations with some of Europe’s most passionate artisans for the Homo Faber Guide. I say weekends, because weekdays are packed to the brim with work for my regular clients. Not that I’m complaining—far from it. Saturdays and Sundays might see me working in my PJs until 2 PM, but when things get particularly hectic, you can bet I’ll be treating myself to a very late brunch, complete with a well-earned glass of wine at a favorite restaurant.
Luckily, the last few weekends have been quieter, which means I’ve finally been able to return to the market in the mornings—and for some reason, it’s been a bit of a reawakening. I’m almost ashamed to admit that the last time I strolled through the market was in October. It’s true what they say: supermarket produce just doesn’t feel, look, or taste the same. It’s missing that essence of nature, somehow. And all that plastic. Why?
This Saturday, I came home with a basket bursting at the seams with the most beautiful cavolo nero—huge, dark leaves, beautifully curly, vibrant, full of life, practically begging to be stir-fried with just a whisper of garlic or added to a hearty soup.
Fragrant bunches of herbs, too (I made fresh pesto again for my minestrone, and oh, the scent of those delicate basil leaves as I pounded them with garlic, pine nuts, and olive oil into delicious submission). Sweet mandarin oranges and kiwis for a much-needed dose of vitamin C (Have you had the flu this year? I did, and it wasn’t pretty). Wild spinach. Radishes. Red-skinned potatoes. Simply unpacking these treasures at home was enough to reignite my culinary inspiration. In fact, I abandoned meal planning altogether this week, choosing instead to let creativity take the lead. It helps, of course, to have a well-stocked pantry—canned tomatoes and legumes, healthy grains, flours—ready to turn inspiration into reality.
Take Sunday, for example: I made a shepherd’s pie of sorts, using tiny, earthy Puy lentils I had bought in France last October, simmered in a rich sauce of red wine, tomatoes, a bouquet garni, carrots, onions, garlic, and a pinch of chili flakes. A blanket of creamy mashed potatoes crowned the top, and we ate like kings. Some sauce was left over and repurposed into enchiladas the next day, wrapped in whole-grain tortillas and topped with buttery guacamole and a zesty salsa of chopped grape tomatoes, cilantro, lime, scallions, and a fiery red chili. As I type, a simple pasta sauce is bubbling away—San Marzano tomatoes (the beautiful canned ones I stocked up on), sautéed garlic, red chili paste (yes, I do love a bit of heat), onions, and a generous glug of red wine. Fresh basil, rosemary, and thyme. Blip, blip, blip for an hour before a fat aubergine, chopped and roasted, gets stirred in. Then it’s just a matter of bringing a big pan of water—salty as the sea—to a rolling boil for my fusilli Pugliesi, and dinner is sorted.
Cooking has a restorative effect on me, and I feel its absence keenly when my schedule robs me of that joy. Especially now, when it sometimes feels as though the world has gone mad, the kitchen remains my refuge—a place where simple ingredients come together in simple meals, and where the simple act of stirring a pot can melt away the stresses of the day, filling the house with warmth and the most wonderful aromas.