A good day is a two-swim day. A good day has a run, preferably in the most crisp fall-turning-into-winter air, your cheeks flushed and your muscles burning. If the run brings you to the edge of the water where you can watch the ferry gliding over to Shelter Island, the water churning furiously in its wake, so much the better.
These days, a good day is filled with ordinary things. Three cups of tea steeped a shade too long, the liquid turning a dark sepia color before you add just the right amount (read: an irresponsible amount) of honey and milk. The feeling of a baby’s warm body, heavy with sleep, against your chest—his breathing steady and rhythmic, his soft and chubby fingers gently resting on your neck.
Making what is no doubt the best (and prettiest) pasta I’ve made in a very long time. [Possibly ever? You have to try this! I have no photographic evidence because it was eaten immediately, but here’s how I did it: I cooked pasta until al dente and drained it. While the pasta cooked, I put 1/2 cup of cashews in a bowl and poured enough boiling water over top to cover them completely and let them sit. (This is just a shortcut—ideally you’d soak the cashews in cold water overnight but who remembers that sort of thing in advance? Don’t answer that.). Meanwhile, I heated some oil in a large skillet and added two shallots, sliced thinly. I cooked them for a minute or two, then added about 3 cups of frozen spinach—though fresh would be fine, as would another sturdy green like kale. I added some salt and pepper and a splash of vinegar—I have this fancy-schmancy yuzu vinegar because I’m a seriously sophisticated human being, duh, but apple cider vinegar would be fine or even straight lemon juice. You just need some acid. Cook that for about 5 minutes, adding 1/2 cup of water after a minute or two. Transfer to a blender, add the soaked cashews (drain them first), and 3 tablespoons of nutritional yeast (or Parmesan if you prefer). Blend until creamy, adding some water if it’s too thick. Add it back to the skillet with the cooked pasta and heat until warmed through, adding more water if needed to make the sauce glossy.]
Finding the prettiest, most whimsical holiday wrapping paper and ordering wide satin ribbon in creamy white and a lusciously juicy-looking crimson to match.
A good day is no time spent on the phone—no customer service on-hold-indefinitely music, no chatting with billing department at the fuel company, no Zoom calls—unless you choose to call someone, like your dad, so you can watch his face crinkle into a smile and hear about his planned farm chores for the day.
If life were a Hollywood movie, a “good day” would be defined differently. It would have sparkly, shiny qualities—the first day of a week’s luxurious vacation where you land at the Milan airport and drive a tiny rental Fiat, cherry red with soft leather seats, to the little village of Limone Sul Garda where you’re greeted with an Aperol spritz. Or, a kiss on a hot July night at a carnival, the neon lights of the Ferris wheel against the night sky giving the moment a cinematic feel, your breath quickening and everything fading to black for a few seconds, until you blink again and it all floods in: the buttery smell of popcorn, happy shrieking and the ding-ding-ding of arcade games, the resin-y scent of pine trees from the forest just beyond the town green.
Those days are good too. They matter. But in lieu of regularly available opportunities for the unexpected, for the spontaneous, for the reach-out-and-touch-someone, for the bump-into-a-friend-at-the-grocery-store, for the whoa-didn’t-expect-to-get-tipsy-and-go-dancing-tonight—you have to look closer and cultivate humble, quiet, happy hours that you string into your own kind of good day.
That might mean taking more care making dinner than you otherwise might. Instead of tossing a can of chickpeas onto a pile of greens with some rice and calling it a night, you might take a few minutes to flip through some cookbooks for inspiration.
You might take a blustery walk along the wide, grassy paths that lead to the beach at Orient Point, distracting yourself from the cold wind on your face by thinking about cozy places. An armchair in front of the fire at the farm after dinner, a plate of biscotti and a glass of milk perched next to you; an outdoor hot tub on a snowy night; a table inside a crowded West Village restaurant, the one tucked underneath the stoop of a brownstone on Hudson Street—giving it the whimsical address of 529 1/2—where you have to raise your voice to be heard by the waiter over the clatter of dishes and the clinking of glasses so you can order the best dish: Peking duck with crispy golden skin lacquered in a thick glossy layer of homemade hoisin sauce.
But then you might be so hungry for the sweet-salty-stickiness of hoisin sauce by the time you get home that nothing else seems very interesting. Obviously, you have no hoisin sauce but that won’t stop you, will it?
You make your own. You have….no meat, and actually all you have in the way of protein is a can of chickpeas. That’ll do.
You cook a pot of buttery millet, then make the hoisin, subbing tahini for the black bean paste (you can also use nut butter but tahini is better), and then you stir in the rinsed chickpeas and eat it while it’s hot and comforting.
And that will be the end of a good day.
Note: As I said, I served this over millet, but any starch would be good—rice or farro or couscous. You could also spoon it over salad greens or braised or roasted vegetables.
Hoisin-Glazed Chickpeas
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup low-sodium soy sauce
3 tablespoons honey
2 tablespoons distilled white vinegar
3 tablespoons tahini
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon hot sauce, optional
1 can chickpeas, rinsed
Heat the oil in a medium pot over medium-high heat until it shimmers.
Add the garlic and cook, stirring, until fragrant—about 1 minute.
Add the soy sauce, honey, vinegar, tahini, salt, and hot sauce (if using), and whisk to combine. Continue cooking until the sauce thickens slightly, about 5 minutes.
Stir in the chickpeas and cook for another 2 minutes, then remove from heat and serve.