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What if I list what it takes to get dinner on the table? Not simply the cooking. That’s where you find me again. (Read Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven)

Sarah Ruhl’s book 100 Essays I Don't Have Time to Write is one of my favorites, especially the opening essay On Interruptions. I return to it when I need to remember this: “At the end of the day, writing has very little to do with writing, and much to do with life. And life, by definition, is not an intrusion.”

Wake and greet the morning like all others, with breakfast. My son eats the overnight oats he made and we compare notes on the upcoming day before he walks to school with Michael and whichever sisters are away at 7:30 a.m.

Michael makes oatmeal because he’s working from home, and I work through breakfast. Too nervous to eat, I prepare for an interview with a source for an upcoming story. 

After we switch places I wash dishes and fuss about the kitchen until the babysitter arrives and I duck back into the office for my call. The conversation goes well, we talk about food and writing (I’m sure you’re shocked), and I draft a few early paragraphs after we say goodbye. In journalism school, I was surprised to learn that I loved interviewing people. I was chronically shy and still often feel socially awkward, but an interview is a conversation with the power dynamics mapped out. What a relief.

Notes complete, Michael and I switch places again and I make myself two hard boiled eggs with furikake and a bowl of yogurt and banana. Don’t ask if I’m paying attention to my protein intake.

A terrible, violent, yet unsurprising thing has happened in the world, and the person it happened to (or who provoked it) is from a nearby city. Tensions are high. The Vice President flies into Sky Harbor. I text my friend a photo of two bottles of wine in my refrigerator we’ll share when they come over for dinner. 

Reading Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to my eight-year-old daughter, I find myself identifying with the kitchen chaos in Chapter VI: Pig and Pepper. The Duchess is nursing a baby and the cook is stirring a pot of soup, then takes it off the stove and starts to throw all sorts of kitchen accoutrement at the Duchess and the baby. While Alice is in a terror worrying that the baby will be hurt, the Duchess hoarsely growls, “If everybody minded their own business, the world would go round a deal faster than it does.” 

In the early afternoon, I get a 28 oz can of crushed tomatoes from the pantry, and two zucchinis and a container of leftover butternut squash from the refrigerator. I plug in the InstaPot, pour in olive oil, and rough up five cloves of garlic with the flat side of my knife. After letting the garlic warm in the olive oil, I add the tomatoes, diced zucchini, and squash, and set it to slow cook. Right before I forget, I take the baguette from the freezer and set it on the counter.

My son gets home from school, updates me on the 6th grade gossip, and goes to finish packing. He and Michael are flying to NYC for a family baptism and I’m not jealous at all.

I drive my eight-year-old daughter to dance class and take myself to the boring coffee shop next door to work. The air conditioning is so strong I order a hot coffee, and draft newsletters and reply to emails on a wave of late afternoon caffeine.  

Once home, the rush is on: All six of us in the kitchen, everyone doing something helpful or not. I set out olives, put on water to boil, stir the sauce, help the two-year-old eat some olives. Michael shoos the middle girls out of the kitchen, tells the 11-year-old to put the cushions back on the couch. I cut the baguette and slather half with sun dried tomato pesto, the other half with olive oil, garlic powder, and an Italian seasoning mix. Friends text that they’re on their way with garlic bread. “Is it the real kind?” my kids want to know. I.e. store bought.

Friends arrive, I pour the wine and hand it around. Michael heats up the veggie balls, which always takes much longer than anticipated, so we eat the array of garlic bread and talk at the same time.

The meal is finally ready. Everyone ovals through the kitchen, serving themselves pasta, sauce, and veggie balls. A wedge of parmesan, bag of nutritional yeast, and plate of bread goes to the table. My five-year-old hates pasta and requests leftover oatmeal with butter, soy milk, and syrup, her regular order.

Sitting around the table, we talk sauce. A friend says it’s been forever since they made it. I jump in, saying, “It was easy. All I did was dump a big can of crushed tomatoes and a diced zucchini and some leftover steamed butternut squash into the InstaPot.”

I want people to know they can make it too, it isn’t precious. But perhaps it’s only easy for me because there’s a running dialogue over 20 years old in my head between the tomatoes and garlic and oil and me. 

In my two-glasses-deep instructions I didn’t mention that I used enough oil so the garlic wouldn’t burn. I smashed the garlic so that the five disparate cloves became evenly sized, but not paste. I added water to the tomato can and swirled it around to get all the good stuff out and poured it into the pot. I added the dried herbs at the end so they wouldn’t scorch. I didn’t add my usual pinch of sugar because the butternut squash was sweet enough to balance the acid. That’s a lot.

My five-year-old walks around the table passing out a clementine to everyone. As we talk, oranges become fidget toys. A friend arranges the lemons and oranges in a pattern, and there are exactly the correct amount. Another stacks three oranges on a wine cap. Then rearranges it so the cap becomes a small hat atop the clementine. The meal stretches to 9 p.m. and then 10. Yawning away from the table, we amble into the warm night and say our goodbyes.

What are you eating for dinner tonight? How will it get on the table?

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