daily we are cautioned to embrace the journey. love the highs. learn from the lows. forget the destination. this is not easy. at least for me. I’m impatient. thrilled with the takeoff. headed somewhere. with the notion of arrival. it takes something big and awesome or small and stinging or something tenacious and afflicting to get me to stop this pursuit. the chase of the high. the push to get there already.
Skillet Italian Tofu
Full disclosure: I don’t like to cook. Not saying I can’t, but I don’t do so with the joy necessary to be a good cook, a real cook. But I do like to eat. A lot. And, lucky for me, I have a spouse who is happy in the kitchen. Who pours over cooking periodicals, chats up recipes, scans blogs for ideas, and with great innovation prepares meals that make everyone at our table happy.
Inevitably, after our workday, our conversation goes something like this: Are you hungry? Or the other, how hungry are you? Either would elicit a yes or a very, and therefore my response would be followed up by, what are you in the mood for? Yes, seriously, the sky is the limit from my own personal spouse-chef. Vegetarian? Simple. Vegan? Varied and delicious. Italian, Asian or any combination of healthy and delicious cuisine? Of course. She opens a few well-worn cookbooks, looks over her notes, checks the fridge and cupboard, and begins with what we have on hand. And this is another point because what a cook has on hand must be plenty in order to produce such meals. Cans of coconut milk and coconut oil. Fresh fennel and basil. Sushi vinegar. Curry. And of course the right knife. Pan. Cutting board. Nothing flashy but precious objects kept in their place.
I offer to help, and there are times when I am allowed a grater and cheese, or asked to scrub up a few potatoes, maybe to gather cherry tomatoes still on the vine. Sous-chef maybe not, but dishwasher extraordinaire, yes!
The following post is from her blog: The Savvy Skillet. Here is one of our favorite dishes, a wonderful tofu. I hope you enjoy the recipe!
postcards
When my children were younger I watched with fascination as they developed collections. Matchbox cars. Star Wars figurines. Stuffed animals and baseball cards. A shelf of Tin Tin books for the oldest, ceramic cats the fascination of my daughter. Later baseball hats filled shelves as did a rainbow of nail polish. But even as I encouraged and often funded their collections I wasn’t interested in acquiring one of my own. In one botched attempt I dutifully declared I would begin with lighthouses and to prove my devotion I held out a 3 inch reproduction, the very one they had given me after a trip they had taken (without me) to Maine. I assured them I adored lighthouses and someday soon this one would be surrounded by many. They looked pleased with my resolve.
My small lighthouse reproduction sat on a window sill in the kitchen, alone, for years, and I never did add another. Yes, I love the regal isolationism, the dedication to assisting wayward mariners, regardless, I didn’t traipse around to acquire more to adorn my sill.
What did happen, somewhat organically, was a collection of postcards. For years, every time I went anywhere for a night or two, I purchased a few cards and sent them to people I imagined might appreciate a glimpse of my sights, like my grandmother or a neighbor. If I was gone longer I would send one to my parents or my children still at home. I found I not only loved finding the right vista on the card, but I enjoyed writing in the small square. I enjoyed crafting the one or two lines: the word-smithing, the need for exactness, finding the right piece of the adventure to tell. For many years, postcards were the only place I let myself write with a flare. With my own developing voice.
Nine Cent Girl 