I have to warn you. There's no going back. Once you have this pesto, all other pesto will be ruined. Yes, you read that right. This is the pesto to end all pesto.
I'm not saying I always take the right path at the parental win fork in the road. But I realized right then how precious these tiny moments that seem so insignificant are. Maybe she wouldn't have remembered this day, no matter my reaction. She's still so young. I don't have memories from that age.
When flipping through recipes I always stop a moment on Dayton's Chunky Tomato Soup, even if I know I'm not adding it to the week's menu. Just the title and I'm transported. There I am in the den of my childhood home. The home my grandfather purchased for his growing family in the early 60s. The home where my mother and aunts and uncles grew up. The Grey House, sitting catty-corner on its giant lot on a street that used to be the suburbs but increasingly edges more and more towards midtown.
It made me think about a lot of times in my life when I felt at peace. And then I remember the halibut. So I went and bought some.
What do we do when we face a world that isn't the one we planned for? What do we do when our brief moments of joy are robbed? What do we do when accidents happen? I don't know. I don't know what we do. But I know what I've done. I've given myself a little more grace. I've reached out for love. I've reached out for guidance. I've reached out for therapy. And I've celebrated the mundane accomplishments I used to take for granted. A shower. A made bed. And a roasted chicken.
I think the trust I'm trying to build back up with myself is also translating to some moments in the kitchen. Usually out of necessity to adapt, like in the instance of this sort of chicken picatta. Instead of panicking I simply remembered what chicken piccata is. I mean, I think I did. This is at least close. And, honestly, if it's not chicken piccata, it's still delicious.
Is it great to lip grab a bass and snap a picture? It is great to toss a few in the basket, hoping maybe this time we'll catch enough for a fish dinner? It is thrilling when your son catches a fish for the first time, only to have a larger fish jump out of the water to try to grab the fish he's pulling through the surface? Yes. But when I think of fishing I don't think of a taut line. I don't think of a wild reel. I don't think of the dance it requires to succeed.
My husband's birthday was this past week. It was his second pandemic birthday. One was hard enough for my Aries, but we made it through. Hopefully this is the last he has to spend isolation from the rest of the world. He loves the world. And being in it. And I can't wait to go back into it with him.
Angus is the King of attempting to murder me while cooking. The first time he almost succeeded, I was making these Turkey Spinach Puffs and he was being a butthole about the puff pastry - unable to decide is it was an alien here to capture his family, or a pound of butter he'd like to eat.
It's hard sometimes to be able to set aside an hour to let something cook in the oven. Which is insane because, what, do I have to chain myself to the oven while it cooks? No. Is it actually easier for me? Yes. But it's the start time that's always getting in the way.