Home Cooking

Home Cooking

We’ll have to start cooking again,” I advise my husband, who nods with resignation. Our teens will soon be home from school for the winter holidays, and we need to make a few lifestyle adjustments.

Living as empty-nesters, Zach and I have regressed with no effort to the decadent ways of our 20s. After college, we lived in Manhattan before getting married and becoming parents. During those days, we used our kitchen primarily as a place to unload takeout food. Indian tonight, or Thai? Or should we head out to The Turtle or The Wok? We went on this way for years. When a friend asked, “Do I actually have to light my oven?” I shrugged in response, “I’ve never used mine for anything but storage.”

It was the ’80s, and my girlfriends and I met for brunch every Sunday. From SoHo to the Upper West Side, we sampled goat cheese omelets, strawberry French toast, and cappuccino sprinkled with cinnamon. Brunch took place in cafes; the idea of cooking our own eggs never occurred to us.

But then a baby, a home in the Westchester suburbs, another baby. Now we were cooking for four. Zach concocted giant vats of soup each Sunday, which we’d freeze and then thaw during the week. Gorgeous creations like Orange Thanksgiving Soup made with pumpkins and squash. A spicy brew of black beans and peppers in chicken stock. Our kids grew up on trays of steaming lasagna, pots of chili with grated cheddar, and broccoli-tofu stir-fry. Each fall, we frequented local orchards, then made bubbling applesauce and apple crisps glazed with brown sugar. When snowstorms closed the schools down, our daughter Julia and her pigtailed friends baked cookies bursting with chocolate chips. On humid summer days, we blended tomatoes and red onions for gazpacho and poured lemonade for icy popsicles.

In the late ’90s, our family moved across the country to Berkeley, a chef’s paradise. But as the kids grew into teenagers, they began to eat out. I’d frequently prepare a full meal only to hear, “I just had pizza with my friends.” Cooking slipped lower on the list of necessities until, with both kids away at school, it barely registers.

I take solace in knowing that my kids are adventurous eaters who like to cook. Julia became the group chef during a month-long school backpacking trip, working small miracles with dried rigatoni and textured vegetable protein. And before he’d even mastered his ABCs, Alex was an enthusiastic sous-chef, energetically mixing fresh corn with flour and eggs for the fried patties he called “corn sweaters.”

These days, I’m seeing signs of winter: sweet potatoes and turnips have surfaced again at our farmers’ market. The holidays are coming, and Zach and I need to get back into the kitchen. And come to think of it, haven’t we been meaning to try out that Williams-Sonoma recipe for carrot ginger soup? And I am suddenly craving an old favorite—spinach tart with onions, mushrooms and Gouda. We are feeling downright virtuous as we thumb through food-stained cookbooks and scribble grocery lists.

It’s early December, and Julia will arrive tonight from her college in Los Angeles. Zach and I stand side by side at the kitchen counter, chopping carrots and bantering over the correct ratio of ginger to garlic. I’m sautéeing mushrooms when he kisses the back of my neck, sending a delicious tingle up and down my spine.

By the time we hear Julia’s key in the door, the soup is simmering on the stove, sending off wafts of sweet ginger. The spinach tart is in the oven, its cheesy topping just beginning to melt. “Umm, something smells great,” Julia notes, as she hauls her luggage into the living room. I walk over to her, proudly carrying a steaming cup of soup. She takes a sip, then hands it back. “That’s good, Mom, but I really can’t stay.” She brushes her hair and reaches for her car keys. “A new Japanese place just opened, and I’m meeting my friends for dinner.”

I open my mouth in protest as she slides out the door. “Wait, we did this for you,” I almost blurt out. But then I glance through the doorway at my husband; he’s slicing a pepper, his sculpted hands strong and graceful. Suddenly I can’t wait to get back to the kitchen. “Stir the soup, hon,” I call out, nearly singing, “and how about some red wine with dinner?”

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Rachel Trachten is a freelance journalist and copyeditor and a regular contributor to The Monthly. She’s undoubtedly whipping up a homemade meal at this very moment.


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