The lentil soup we’ve made forty times
It is not a good recipe. It is a repeatable one — four things we always have, one pan, and a texture that survives being reheated on a Tuesday by a man who is not paying attention.
Notebook
Food we have made more than three times. If it only happened once it isn’t in here, however good it was.
It is not a good recipe. It is a repeatable one — four things we always have, one pan, and a texture that survives being reheated on a Tuesday by a man who is not paying attention.
Nell started being invited places, and then people started being invited here, and I discovered I had no idea what I was doing — including a fairly frightening twenty minutes about a peanut that turned out not to be a peanut.
One tray, one oven, forty minutes, and no attention required in the middle of it. It is the only thing I cook that produces a second and third meal without me having decided to make a second and third meal.
For two terms I made a nice lunch and it came home. Not some of it — the same three things, every day, in the same box, having travelled to school and back untouched.
Four people, twenty minutes, and nobody in this house is at their best before about nine. What survived is three things on rotation, all of which can be eaten by somebody who is not fully awake.
Not a meal plan. A list of the six things we can make without thinking, stuck inside a cupboard door, which has done more for our week than three years of proper meal planning ever did.
Rowan is three and eats pasta, toast, yoghurt and apples. We spent a year trying to fix this and made it worse, and then we stopped trying to fix it and it started, very slowly, moving.
Four ingredients, no kneading, and a loaf that is somewhere between rustic and structurally concerning. I have made it about sixty times and it has been genuinely good perhaps eleven of those, which turns out to be enough.