Dinner, a Semi-Complete List: Part Two

After Sarah Ruhl's essay "On Interruptions"

What if I list what it takes to get dinner on the table? Not simply the cooking. That’s where you find me again. (Read Part 1.)

Sarah Ruhl’s book 100 Essays I Don't Have Time to Write is one of my favorites, especially the opening essay “On Interruptions.” I return to it when I need to remember this: “At the end of the day, writing has very little to do with writing, and much to do with life. And life, by definition, is not an intrusion.”

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Weekday, Winter 2024

Wake up with the sinking realization that we still need to eat. 

Go to my friend’s where she makes coffee from my favorite Peixoto beans. Drink it hot and black, on a morning that’s finally cold after a never-ending summer.

At home, toast a muffin made from blended leftover oatmeal and banana.

Read Blue Plate Special by Kate Christensen on my phone, devouring half the book in a day. While nursing the baby, while scratching the four-year-old’s back at bed time, then in the dark of my room after everyone is asleep.

Type this newsletter at 2:48 pm on a Friday, sitting in my van while the baby sleeps in her carseat. Remember this is how I used to get a lot of writing done when my oldest was little. Think of the other car-writers — Doireann Ní Ghríofa and Bud Smith (who made a truck desk) come to mind. 

Make pizza dough with two overtired children. My seven-year-old tops the dough with cheese arranged in straight lines. Scour the cabinets for my second half sheet pan. No luck.

Question everything as December blows in with a vengeance.

Eat microwaveable fake chicken patties on soft wheat bread with cherry pepper spread. Eat my daughter’s pizza crust. Eat forgettable whatevers as I simmer grapefruit peels in sugar syrup and bake granola to give as gifts.

In the kitchen, pot simmering. Button the two buttons on my four-year-old’s sweater three times in fifteen minutes as she takes it off and on.

Look at her, not my notebook, like she asks. Look at my notebook until she notices I’m not looking at her.

Have the usual choking feeling. Ideas and responsibilities joust for my time. I hew the idea until it is doable, but not so small it disappears into the ether of caregiving and other work. 

Crowd chickpeas (made following Anna’s recipe) onto a pan with peppers and onions to roast.

Remember the mushroom and leek confit crepe I ate from La Rue at their first Phoenix pop-up outside Monsoon Market. Remember the idea I had for a time-consuming confit leek tart to bring to a friend’s potluck that I abandoned in favor of roasted gochujang cabbage. Remember there are ninety-nine hours until the new Gregorian year.

Type this newsletter at 8:13 pm on the Friday after Christmas with my hair wet, while my family watches a movie. 

Eat leftover tamales because the other food isn’t ready yet.

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The Good Enough Weekly comes out on Fridays, alternating essays and shorter updates. I also take on freelance editing and writing projects. Reach out if you’re looking for help in those departments — I’ve worked on everything from zines to textbooks.