I spent this past weekend cooking my feelings. And what they demanded was very specific: roasted spiced sweet potatoes sprinkled with fennel, red pepper flake, and sea salt; creamed spinach with plenty of Sriracha (which translates to just a hint of sass); and garlic-sage breaded pork chops.
This is NOT a meal I’ve ever made before. Usually when we crave comfort foods, we revert to whatever made us happiest as children (and so I can’t count the times I’ve turned to Nestle Tollhouse for emotional support, something I talk about here). But the mishegas around the Senate tax bill demanded something a bit more… sophisticated. I didn’t want sugar; I didn’t want drama. I wanted stability. I wanted to feel like an adult in a world that seems increasingly driven by adolescent outrage and toddler id.
Just as I was serving dinner, a pal down in DC texted to say she’d spent the day making borscht. Knowing her, it was real-deal borscht, the kind that takes hours of simmering, the kind you can stick a fork in and it will stay standing, the kind that transports you halfway across the world, or back in time, or forward.
Thought #1? Clearly, I’m not alone.
Thought #2? Borscht, I’m coming for you.
Marisa Robertson-Textor 