Little time and less ingredients creates culinary pressure—and inspiration?
Last Monday night, I found myself in an intense episode of Chopped. My friends who I was staying with were deep into a marathon-catch up of The Boys, and I had arrogantly declared I would make dinner with whatever I found in their fridge. Far too arrogantly, as it turned out, because after casing the crisper, pantry, and freezer for 12 panicked minutes, all I came up with were a bunch of carrots so shriveled and shrunken I’m sure they were purchased in February, a few equally wrinkled new potatoes, half a container of Bulgarian feta in brine, a tomato, some tuna, and the remnants of a cheese plate we’d made before to eat by the pool. (Ah, simpler times.) Also, did I mention that there was a countdown clock? I had a train to catch in 120 minutes. I did manage to make a sort of feta brine vinaigrette-coated roasted carrot and feta salad, tossed boiled and smashed potatoes with fresh tomato-garlic sauce and preserved tuna, and a weird Carbonara-esque thing that involved crisped cheese plate salami and multiple bits of cheese that were not aged pecorino. Where I ended up menu-wise turned out to be less important, though, than the process, which reminded me in a roundabout way what I love about cooking: listening to the ingredients (even when they’re openly sobbing), thinking about what would make my friends happy, and losing myself completely and then finding myself along the way.