got 20 minutes? let's cook.
There's a middle ground between elaborate meals and takeout. It's improvisation, and the key is a well-stocked pantry. Also: tinned fish!
Lately: I’ve been fully consumed by writing, glued to the couch in the bay window in my bedroom, which I’ve decided has the perfect amount of firmness and light to spark at least a low level of creativity. … As you read this, I’ll be in Newport, R.I., for a wedding. I’ve only been to Newport once, for about 18 hours, so I’m excited to explore more and ogle my way along the Cliff Walk. … In the past couple weeks, I’ve opened some of the wine I recently ordered from the Marigny. I had a Marigny wine last winter at ‘Ssippi in St. Louis and loved it, so I went hog wild on the site and wound up with six bottles in the mail. Everything I’ve tried so far has been crisp and interesting and a little funky, all at a really good price point. … Oh, and here’s a tease for a future newsletter: Four years after everyone else, I’ve waded into the world of sourdough. These sourdough chocolate chip cookies are chewy, with thin, crispy edges just a hint of tang, and it’s worth getting a starter going just to make them.
cooking straight from the pantry
When I want a good barometer reading of the pressure in my personal atmosphere, I look no further than what I’ve cooked and baked lately. Complete, thought-out dinners every night? I’m probably bored. Elaborate feasts on the weekends, cakes for no reason, more loaves of bread than I know what to do with? I’m stressed beyond belief. For most of the past four years, my life has swung between those two extremes, which has induced some whiplash but also left my stomach mostly full and content.
Lately, though, I’ve found myself in an unfamiliar middle ground: I’m busy but not particularly stressed, challenged and engaged with the work I’m doing. Most days, I look up from my computer, and it’s 6 p.m. The sun is lower than I’ve grown accustomed to, and I have no no plan for how and when to get dinner on the table.
A past version of me might have ordered takeout or assembled a makeshift array of snacks: yogurt, a protein bar, a hard-boiled egg, a few scoops of hummus. But look how I’ve evolved! (Look how I’ve recognized that this kind of eating will leave Jesse staring at the open fridge at 10 p.m.!) These days, as I settle into this state of professional productivity and pray it’s more than a phase, I’m working on fitting cooking into the equation without disrupting whatever fragile balance I’ve achieved. The key? For me, it’s been a total abandonment of planning. I don’t scroll the New York Times Cooking app each morning, browsing new recipes. I’ve stopped laying out a dinner schedule for the week each Sunday night. Instead, I stock my pantry and try to keep versatile perishables in the fridge. Then I close my laptop whenever the spirit moves me and concoct something simple in my head, then on the stove. I’ve yet to fail to get a meal on the table, and most of them have been fairly delicious.
Over the past few years, I’ve been proud of a lot of things I’ve cooked and baked. I learned how to use a smoker and have gotten comfortable working with yeast. And the wedding cakes! I went through a prime rib phase and got to the point where what I pulled out of the oven was close to restaurant-quality. But sitting here, staring at my pantry, I feel nearly as accomplished when I consider how good I’ve gotten at improvising, at fitting cooking into hard days and busy ones. I’ve learned how to stay on course when I’m missing one ingredient because I haven’t been to the grocery store in five days. I remind myself that no recipe will wither without ginger, or with half as much garlic as it calls for, or if I substitute spinach for kale. Grains have become my friend. And cans. And beans and tomato paste and cream and herbs, even if they’re stuck in a water glass, nearly wilting, but not quite.
Here’s what I try to keep in my fridge at all times these days, the perishable building blocks of so many good dinners:
a tube of tomato paste
plain, full fat Greek yogurt
heavy cream (thin it with water for recipes that call for half and half, and thin it more when you need whole milk)
cherry tomatoes
lemons
limes
oranges
parsley
cilantro
green onions
white miso
And here’s what’s always in my pantry:
at least two types of rice — usually brown and basmati
dried spaghetti
dried rigatoni
dried red lentils
dried white beans
several cans of coconut milk
canned chickpeas
canned San Marzano tomatoes
honey
coconut oil
white vinegar
ginger
garlic
yellow onions
shallots
tinned fish
A word on tinned fish
I was a relative latecomer to the tinned fish trend. I knew I was wrong, but for a while, I heard the words, and all I could think of were the Sunkist packets of my childhood, which never failed to turn my stomach. Finally, on a trip to Island Creek Oysters’ restaurant in Portland, Maine, last fall, I gave in. I ordered a tinned fish board with mussels, and a few minutes later, I was using bread to sop up whatever juice and sauce was left in the little metal can. As soon as I got home to D.C., I placed an order from Fishwife and another from Island Creek’s online store.
At first, I had no clue what to do with the sea creatures that arrived at my doorstep, so I ate them on toast or straight from the tin. It took a second shipment for me to get creative, at which point I realized tinned fish is the key to the best dinners in a pinch. Specifically pasta. I’m not going to include recipes, because I largely believe pasta is best improvised — pick a flavor profile and run with it. With that in mind, I’ve settled on two favorite formulas: tuna-lemon-herb-parmesan and oyster-tomato-cream. Both are best with linguine, and for the oyster pasta, any smoked variety will do. For the tuna, I’m devoted to Island Creek’s tuna belly in butter, which has been sold out on their site for several months. I’m scared to try a different brand, because most of the tinned tuna belly I can find online is packed in olive oil, and the butter in the Island Creek tin is the key to the herby sauce I’ve come to crave. Alas.
A final word: Buy tinned fish in Europe. I flew home in the spring with several boxes worth, and I regret not buying more. It’s better and cheaper and utterly packable.