It was one of those weeks where I just kept cooking. A string of plates piled up on the camera roll and I want to keep them all in one place.
Deviled eggs first, because they’re what you make to set the tone. Paprika-dusted, chives on top, on a walnut board. They don’t last long in this house.
Sunday was the meatloaf plate - sliced meatloaf, cold macaroni salad with enough pickle in it to register, roasted potatoes, halved brussels sprouts. Nobody’s idea of fancy, everybody’s idea of good. A cold beer behind the plate for scale.
I made a bundt cake midweek, chocolate chips through a brown-sugar batter, a glaze I poured on while it was still warm and watched run down the ridges.
Tuesday was a carbonara - fettuccine, a lot of pepper, guanciale because I’d thought ahead. I stood at the counter and ate it out of the pan, which is the correct way.
Wednesday was teriyaki chicken over rice with very charred broccoli, which is one of those weeknight plates that makes you wonder why we don’t eat this every week.
Thursday was beef tips in gravy on mashed potatoes - a plate that felt about thirty years older than me, and tasted right in that way.
Friday was sesame chicken, crispy edges, scallion tops. Saturday morning was the breakfast. Waffles with banana and strawberry, bacon and sausages still coming out of the oven, two kinds of eggs, orange juice sweating on the table.
I snuck in a chicken piccata that night - buttered egg noodles, roasted brussels, a lemon slice tucked onto the chicken - because we needed something small and bright. And to cap the week, chicken parmesan with a mac-and-cheese side and roast potatoes, which is a perfect sendoff dinner.
The kitchen was too quiet for two days after. I wouldn’t trade the week for anything.
