‘Just’ a home cook

We went out for lunch last week, and to entertain the 3 year old between courses, I took him for a walk. 

There was the luxury of an open kitchen; a baker smiling as they prepared naan breads, chefs meticulously tidying their mise-en-place (to be fair, I would too if it was in public view), waiters kindly letting us go right up to the pass.

Soon, there was ice-cream for him and a hot coffee for me, and we were back at our table.

I found myself thinking (not for the first time), about why I will forever be 'just' a home cook.

I mean, I have standards. 

I learnt how to eat when I taught English in China as a fresh-faced 18 year old. I learnt how to wash dishes and make lasagna in a very ordinary Northern Irish cafe who just did things right when it came to freshness and cleanliness and pretty much everything else (amongst the coleslaw and chicken chasseur, they made fresh pasta for lasagna for goodness sake).

So maybe that is why my standards intersect ALL of that. Because what is brought to the table alongside the food is just as important as the food itself. 

If not, why does the memory of a box of chips with my first boyfriend make me smile so much? 

The thought of my darling Dad's roast potatoes make me want to weep? 

The taste of the prawn sandwich I ate in my friend's garden while recovering from a broken ankle linger on?

Because food is about so much more than what is on the plate.

It nourishes us, it connects us, it is a check in with each other and ourselves.

But these days, there is a tiny little food critic at the table at all times. Nearly six weeks early, and just so very small when he arrived, I have been monitoring what that kid has eaten since the minute he was born.

The breastfeeding evolved into the mashed up avocado evolved into the licking salt off crisps in the pub evolved into the dosa devouring evolved into the ‘I DON’T LIKE IT’. 

And with all of these evolutions, I have been growing, too. I work pretty damn hard, my time and energy is stretched in all sorts of directions. To nourish us all, I need to take a little bit of pressure off the food itself. These days, food is less about showing off and more about what will actually sustain us all.

Because home cooking, I think, demands more from me than any other cooking season of my life so far.

It asks for presence. For repetition. For turning up at the table even when you’re tired. It asks for roast potatoes that taste like someone loves you. For pasta that appears, reliably, on a Wednesday. For food that holds a week together.

So I’m here, cooking family food that (mostly) gets eaten (I would love to do a before and after picture series on this, but have I mentioned the lack of time?). 

This isn’t picture perfect. It’s not maximised for every possible nutrient.

It’s just dinner. Made by a home cook. For the people she loves.

Because we have to do that each and every sodding night.

Welcome along.