Meal planning—not what you think

Cashew Chicken - dinner last night
thanks to Christian

In the “to do” stack on my desk—and in the back of my mind—is an essay on the temptations of quarantine. You see, I am sort of enjoying quarantine, even while I’m horrified at the illness and death ravaging our country (don’t let me digress). Of course I miss restaurant meals with my friends and the like, but now I have an excuse to sink into the bubble that my wonderful daughter, Jordan, has created for me. I can write, read, nap, and cook—a purely self-indulgent life. And I do see friends—a few, who we know are also quarantining, come by for a BYOB, distanced, masked happy hour occasionally. And I don’t have to do the few things in this world that I really don’t want to do, although I did go to the dentist.

But last night I discovered another plus to quarantine, and I think it will have to go in that essay, should I ever finish it. Jordan and I spent a companionable hour and a half going over recipes and choosing our dinners for the week to come. Yes, we had glasses of wine at our elbows.

When we first started this communal living—Jordan and family (the boys, as we call the father and son) in the house and me in the cottage—we gathered for family dinner on Sunday nights in the house. Other than that, we were on our own. All of us frequently had outside dinner plans; sometimes Christian’s work happy hours kept him out late; Jordan had happy hours for work and pleasure; I had weekly dinners with friends. it was just easier to each cook for ourselves. Sometimes when Jordan would come to the cottage about five-thirty in the evening, I’d ask what they were having for dinner, and she’d shrug and say, “I have no idea.”

But with quarantine, all that changed and the meal planning sessions gradually developed. None of us went anywhere—no more restaurant meals or happy hours. With grocery delivery, it was easiest to pool our lists and place one or two orders a week. These days, masked and gloved, Jordan ventures to the grocery, but we pretty much order from Central Market and pick it up at curbside delivery. A friend goes to Trader Joe’s and always checks with Jordan to see what we need. We do order take-out occasionally, but with a few exceptions we find what we cook at home tastes so much better.

Most evenings we eat in the cottage. Christian and I do most of the cooking, while Jordan does clean-up—and Jacob gets the garbage detail. We’ve all had to make some adjustments—the Burtons don’t like some things that I enjoy. Cold summer soups and squash come immediately to mind. Christian has been slow to come to some things, but is now enthusiastic about salmon, and he liked the Dover sole we did one night recently. I’m not responsible for shaping his palate, but I do sometimes wonder where I went amuck raising Jordan. I, on the other hand, have learned to appreciate more Asian dishes—Christian’s specialty—and I am indebted to him for leaving bell pepper and hot spices out of everything he cooks.

So what took us an hour and a half last night? First of all, my gigantic folder of things I want to try—every time I go through it, I eliminate a few that I know I won’t cook. But it’s still bulging. Then a recipe for red beans and rice (I know—who needs a recipe?) reminded me of a beef and bean dish I cooked when the kids were little, and Jordan immediately wanted that. Luckily, it’s in my first cookbook—Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books, so I still have it on the computer. We’ll have it one night this week.

After our planning, we’ll also have Mongolian beef (Christian does a superb job on that), chicken with pesto and noodles, family favorite Doris’ casserole, Asian dishes so Christian can play with his new work. Tonight it’s hamburger Stroganoff, because I need a picture for a guest blog pushing Saving Grace. And Jordan and I will cook together--from my seated walker, it's hard for me to use two hands to scrape a bowl or skillet, and she happily does such for me. It's a good system, and it will be a good week.

My newest yard art
Courtesy the Tomball Alters