There’s so much to say sometimes. Sentences that I want to write keep popping into my head at inopportune times—like when I’m riding my bike or taking a shower or trying to carry 3 boxes of seltzer into the kitchen or assessing the feasibility of changing a diaper on an open ferry deck full of people without baby wipes and without touching any public surfaces. (Spoiler alert: It’s possible but extremely challenging and yes, I’m basically a wizard of parenting.)
I want to tell you about October on the rocky coast of Maine. About plunging into frigid cold water just after sunrise. About one of the coolest nature sightings I’ve ever witnessed. About hiking on cold, leafy trails in the early morning when the ground is still slick with a fine, sugar-like dusting of frost. About watching dairy cows driven home through an oceanside pasture in the low, golden hours of the afternoon. About warm corn muffins and cold spinach salads and the gentle hissing and crackling of a fireplace in the evening. About laughing so hard you have to wipe tears from your eyes and watching the lobster boats bob in the water at low tide and about two of the best things I read this month. About how your body feels loose and electric after a run through a farm at dusk.
But those will have to wait because I haven’t had time to put pen to paper, so to speak. For now it’s easier to spill out words about what’s going on right now, right here, today.
My Google searches for the week include “fog warning Orient Point” and “Caldecott winners 2019” and “can babies have creme fraiche”. I’ve had three cups of very strong tea and am eyeballing the kettle for a fourth. I rolled over in bed this morning and stretched only to discover fiercely sore arm and ab muscles—puzzled, I ran through the previous day in my mind, only to remember that I’d done a 15 minute HITT workout in the bedroom dressed in only my underwear on Tuesday evening before taking a shower, and apparently a mere 10 burpees and a few plank jumps thrown in for good measure can whip you into submission, if you’re me.
The bay was blanketed in fog this morning, reducing visibility to only a few feet. The surface of the water was dead calm, and as I carried my paddleboard out to the dock, you could hear the metal brackets of furled sails clanking against the masts of the boats moored in the far-off harbor.
A couple stood near me in the white mist, waiting—they told me—for a fishing charter to pick them up. As we stood, something in the distant emitted a high-pitched, whistle-like sound that echoed and bounced off the water. A porpoise?, we mused. Some sort of marine animal for certain. Suddenly the outline of their fishing boat appeared like a ghostly apparition in the fog, growing more and more solid as it drew closer. They climbed aboard, tossing thermoses and towels and dry bags of clothes onto the deck. I chatted with the guide as I waited for them to get settled and leave—he thought the gentle wail could have been a harbor seal, and he strongly urged me not to paddleboard into the bay in the foggy conditions.
I heeded his advice (you try not listening to an extremely handsome bearded fishing guide with a fierce tan and crinkly eyes!) and instead paddled along the town marina, keeping close enough to shore to touch the docks with my paddle.
After a swim in the mist, I carried my board home through the soupy, humid air. It felt as hot as a July morning, and later when the sun burned off the fog, I had to change into a t-shirt and shorts.
I try to check off a few items on my to-do list, cherry-picking the ones that feel achievable, but the sticky weather makes me feel antsy inside and too warm outside. I need to take a run later to clear my head. I also need to make dinner (sweet potato taquitos) and turn a loaf of almost-stale Blue Hill Farm bread into croutons and do a load (or five) of laundry (MY GOD DOES IT NEVER END).
I keep starting one task, then stopping it and half-heartedly moving onto another. Do you have days like this?
I’m trying to clean out some odds and ends that have been languishing in the fridge for too long—yesterday for dinner I made bánh mì-inspired sandwiches: slices of tofu browned in five spice powder, turmeric, cayenne, and paprika piled on toasted ciabatta which I slathered thickly with miso-tamari dressing. I added a layer of quick-pickled vegetables (thinly sliced snap peas and carrots and radishes) and a handful of fresh cilantro before placing the second slice of ciabatta on top.
And for lunch today I briefly saute the last of the kale from the garden with a can of chickpeas and toss it all, still warm, with some leftover maple mustard dressing I made the other week. I finish it with a truly irresponsible amount of toasted breadcrumbs. I step back to look at it, thinking critically: This is basically buttered toast with a few chickpeas.
But until I get more groceries, this is the situation at hand. I’m using up the sweet potatoes in the pantry drawer. The corn tortillas in the freezer. The few spoonfuls of sweet white miso left in the tub.
When I came home on Monday from more than a week away, I surveyed the fridge and realized that we had…nothing. (Okay not NOTHING but the pickings were slim.)
I grabbed a few ingredients and placed them on the counter, frowning in concentration. I turned to the baby. “Okay, sir. We have half a box of cavatelli. A head of pretty questionably fresh romaine lettuce. A scant quarter bag of frozen peas. And every random pantry condiment under the sun. Go! Go! Go!”
He promptly hopped up, put on a tiny chef’s coat, and got to work.
KIDDING. But wouldn’t that be cute?
Instead, he sat slouched over in his Bumbo seat, gumming on a silicone giraffe like she was a cold glass of water after a 20-mile run. I set about boiling water for the pasta.
If you find yourself in this same situation (baby or no baby), first of all: how odd that we have the same exact random pantry assortment! And second of all: here’s what you’re going to do.
First, cook your pasta until about 3 minutes shy of al dente. Ignore your husband when he ambles into the kitchen, pops a few pieces of cooked pasta into his mouth and says “you know these are way underdone, right?” (Oh, wow, I didn’t know that! Thanks so much for your contribution to the household cause. You’ve been extremely helpful and may see yourself out.)
Now, drain the pasta. In the largest skillet you have, heat some olive oil and add a chopped shallot (or garlic). Cook for a minute or two until fragrant. Add the frozen peas and the (under)cooked pasta and a pinch of salt. Cook, stirring, for about a minute and then add a head of romaine lettuce, sliced thinly, and about 1/3 cup of nutritional yeast. Cook for another minute, then add a 1/2 cup of water and continue cooking until the water mostly disappears. Add another half cup, cook for a bit longer, and check the pasta to see if its now properly done. If it’s still a bit toothsome, add some more water and keep cooking.
Once the pasta is nicely soft and the sauce is glossy but not too dry or too liquidy, remove from the heat and serve. I add a pinch of red pepper flakes, but that’s up to you.
Pasta with Wilted Lettuce + Peas
Serves 2
1 pound dried pasta
1 shallot, minced
2 cups frozen peas
1 head romaine lettuce
1/3 cup nutritional yeast
pinch of salt
pinch of red pepper flakes (optional)
Bring a large pot of heavily salted water to a boil. Add the pasta and cook about 3 minutes shy of al dente, then drain.
In a large skillet, heat about 2 tablespoons of olive oil.
Add the shallot and cook for a minute or two over medium-high heat, until fragrant.
Add the frozen peas and the drained pasta and season with a pinch of salt. Cook, stirring, for another minute.
Thinly slice the lettuce and add that to that pan along with the nutritional yeast. Cook for a minute, then add 1/2 cup of water and continue cooking.
Taste the pasta for doneness. If it’s still too al dente, add another 1/2 cup of water and keep cooking.
You want the pasta to be properly cooked, and the sauce to be glossy but not overly wet or overly dry. Adjust the water and cook as needed.
Season with a pinch of red pepper flakes, if you like, and serve hot.