So much of the first two decades of life is a constant switching of gears. I think about high school: 50 minutes of class followed by a rush to get to the next one. A swirl of girls in royal blue skirts and white polos spilling out into the wide hallways, a cacophony of metal locker doors banging shut and shrieking laughter and shoes slapping on slick red-and-white vinyl tile—then repeat, repeat, repeat until a hurried lunch and more classes—my mind spinning rapidly from the finer points of the defenestration of Prague in AP European History, to a sight reading of the first three lines of Vergil’s Aeneid Book 2 in the original Latin, to a tightly-scrawled page of notes on differential calculus equations. In the back of it all, I’m thinking about field hockey practice and hitting my drive harder on the jewel-green turf and what shirt to wear on Friday night and how a yet-unnamed boy’s hair looks when he flips the shiny flop of it off his face with a flick of his head.
College was the same—an ever-shifting slate of activities, no day or hour the same. Every week holds something new, someone new, someplace new. Every summer I travel somewhere new, work somewhere new, live somewhere new. Hike new trails; learn to build a beach bonfire; discover that I like blackberry-flavored beer and swimming naked late at night in lake water and that I don’t like Excel macros or small talk about finance. My very self feels steady but my outer layers are malleable and open—thirsty and waiting to be molded by the next person or adventure or taste or sound.
It’s more of the first and less of the second the older you get, but that doesn’t mean days don’t unfold in small and quiet surprises, even in a year like this one.
I don’t know, for example, whether the sky over the water will be the slate gray of rain clouds at sunrise or whether it will melt from black into splashy neon streaks, like a real-life Lite Brite.
I don’t know what book I’ll fall in love with next. I didn’t know I’d start running again—harder and faster and stronger than I can ever remember being able to do before.
In these past months, some sort of routine underpins my weeks more than ever—out of necessity without the spontaneity of leaving home regularly—but there are plenty of cracks where surprise and variety seeps in.
Let’s take cooking, for example. Specifically dinner. For the last three weeks I’ve eaten the same thing every single night (quiche, marry me, have babies with me) but today it’s all red sauce Italian vibes—with a request from my most-of-the-time-vegan husband for baked ziti.
If you’re wondering how to make it without creamy ricotta and gooey mozzarella, SAME! SAME! Same. But turns out you can do a pretty aces job with a savory tomato sauce and layers of this concoction: nuts (preferably cashews) blended with coconut oil, nutritional yeast, garlic, and tapioca starch.
And I’m glad I deviated from any familiar course to try it because I find the act of cooking something new so soothing. Here’s why:
I’m meditating now at the stove—cooking onions just shy of caramelized. I consider turning on music, low on the speakers, or pressing play on my audiobook, but I don’t. I’m too lost in the trance-like motions of it—mesmerized by the slick golden pool of oil shimmering wetly under the spatula. The onions turning translucent, then frizzled and brown at the edges where my burner runs hot.
I slide my finger along the flat side of the chef’s knife where bits of garlic cling after I’ve minced a whole clove. The garlic sizzles indignantly, then settles down—I imagine it as a teeny fierce garlic man, fists up at first, then sighing and slumping, accepting defeat, then gamely laying down its prize for the taking: the heady fragrance and sharp, savory flavor.
This is what happens when I lose myself in cooking! This is not a young adult fantasy novel about knights and dragons! Sorry. I check my notes, reminding myself what to do next.
I add…a lot of dried oregano. A pinch of red pepper flakes. An entire can of crushed tomatoes, flinging red droplets of sauce over the stovetop. Is that nice, kind, or necessary? I wordlessly address the tomato sauce can. No. But whatever. I’m game to clean the stove for the third time today. It’s cathartic.
(Should you prefer to avoid that ritual, I recommend carrying your pan over to the sink, pouring the tomatoes in, letting them do their thing for ten seconds, then returning it to the stove. Currently accepting Nobel Prize nominations for Excellence in Cleanliness and Domestic Goddess Inclinations.)
I add about a cup of finely minced shiitake mushrooms—if you want something meaty and substantial but you’re making a vegan baked ziti as I was, this is a nice move. If you’re making this purely because it sounds absolutely delicious (which it is) and you’re not vegan, you could add some Italian sausage or ground beef. Lamb even? Veal? Sure.
Let that all simmer over low heat for 10 or 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. If it’s getting far too thick, you could add a quarter cup or so of water, but you shouldn’t need to. (Sometimes I’ll add a little tomato paste in with the garlic if you want to amp up that flavor, and you could also do a splash of red wine or even sherry? It is 2020 after all, now is probably not the time to shy away from the liquor cabinet, to be honest.)
While the sauce cooks, I boil the pasta, draining it when it’s still a few minutes shy of al dente. I spend at least 30 seconds contemplating how much I enjoy the use of the word “shy” in this context.
I oil a large casserole dish. Spoon in a little tomato sauce. Toss the rest with the pasta and layer that with the ricotta-ish sauce and bake it for 30 minutes while I ride the bike in a a fury of sweat, watching the cardinals flit around the trees in the backyard and smelling the kitchen fill up with a scent that reminds me of pizza parlors and evening high school field hockey team dinners over garlic bread and spaghetti with marinara sauce.
It’s so good I eat some of the topping with a spoon before dinner even starts—we finish the entire dish between dinner and lunch the next day, even though I figured I’d made enough for 3 nights. So be it! Feed the soul with what feeds your soul.
**Note: UGH sorry I hate calling things “cheese” but, really, what other word is there in this context? Bear with me please and thank you!
(Vegan) Baked Ziti
For the “cheese”
1 cup raw cashews (almonds will work too, but not as well)
1/2 cup melted coconut oil
1 cup water
2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar
2 tablespoons nutritional yeast
2 tablespoons tapioca starch or flour
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon paprika
For the sauce + pasta
1 pound dried ziti
1 yellow onion, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 cup shiitake mushrooms, finely chopped (optional)
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon dried oregano
pinch of red pepper flakes (adjust to taste, leave out if you can’t take—kidding, don’t want—the heat)
40 ounces (1 1/2 cans if you’re using 28 ounce cans) crushed tomatoes
First, place the cashews in a large bowl and cover them completely with boiling water. Set aside while you make the pasta and sauce.
Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and add the pasta. Cook about 3 minutes shy of al dente, then drain and set aside.
Make the sauce: Heat a couple tablespoons of olive oil in a large skillet with high sides (it will splatter as it cooks!). Add the onion and cook over medium-high heat, stirring occasionally, until soft.
Add the garlic and stir until fragrant, about 1 minute.
Add the mushrooms, if using, and cook for about 2 or 3 minutes.
Add the salt, oregano, red pepper flakes, and crushed tomatoes.
Stir, then cook over medium heat for about 10 to 15 minutes.
Lightly grease a large casserole dish (I used a 3-quart oval one but you can eyeball it—you just want the pasta to almost fill the dish but not overflow, obviously).
Spoon about 1/4 cup of the sauce into the dish and spread it over the base.
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.
Toss the rest of the sauce with the pasta and pour half of it into the dish.
Finish the “cheese”: Drain the soaked cashews and add them to a blender with the rest of the cheese ingredients. Blend on high until smooth. (You can make this in advance and store it in the fridge if you want.)
Pour half of the mixture over the pasta in the dish, then cover with the remaining pasta and then top with the rest of the “cheese”.
Pop the dish in the oven and bake for about 25 to 30 minutes.
Just before serving, turn the broiler on high and broil (watch carefully so it doesn't burn!) for about 2 to 3 minutes, or until the top is nicely toasted.
I like to serve over greens, like arugula.