The week before Christmas always feels like this - half holiday, half hibernation, the grocery store inexplicably crowded. I don’t make grand plans in these weeks. I mostly try to cook things that make the house smell good and keep my husband from eating crackers for dinner.
Monday was butter chicken, which is the dinner I most often make when I want the whole downstairs to smell like a restaurant. Basmati rice, torn cilantro, warm naan folded into the bowl.
Tuesday I wanted something slow and wintry. Chicken and a mushroom cream sauce over mashed potatoes, with enough parsley to make it look like I’d put thought into the photo. I had.
Wednesday was shrimp with small pasta rings in a garlic-butter sauce - the tiny pasta was an accident, honestly; I’d grabbed the wrong box out of the cabinet, and it turned out to be one of those happy accidents where you think I should make it like this on purpose next time.
Thursday was sesame beef over rice. Friday a piece of salmon on a nest of fettuccine alfredo, which is richer than it sounds and twice as rich as it looks. Saturday I was tired and wanted nothing on a plate. A big bowl of sesame-soy spaghetti with wilted spinach, eaten on the couch, the tree lights on, the furnace clicking on and off, neither of us saying much.
Six small dinners. Nothing showy. It’s how I like December.
