This is the first week I started actually taking pictures of what I was cooking, which is probably its own kind of confession - I wasn’t photographing any of it because I thought it was good. I was photographing it because I wanted to remember it. There’s a difference.
One night was a chicken curry that came together almost by accident. Some onions I’d been meaning to use. A can of tomatoes. Yogurt at the end to pull everything back from the edge of too-spicy. By the time I spooned it over basmati and tore in the cilantro, the whole kitchen smelled like somewhere I hadn’t been in a long time. My husband came in from the other room before I even called him.
A few nights later it was a pork tenderloin - the kind of dinner you make when you want the evening to feel a little more like something. Herb crust, resting on the board while I finished a nest of buttered egg noodles with too much black pepper. Simple food, but slow enough that we actually sat down instead of eating on the couch.
Two very different plates. I liked that about them, sitting here now. One warm and loud with spice; the other quiet, almost courtly. It’s funny how that’s become the shape of the week ever since.
