Despite Neil deGrasse Tyson's annual reminders that January 1st is a completely arbitrary moment in time (we wouldn't have this sense of endings and beginnings if we had a calendar that ran on continuously, although it would probably be cumbersome to remember the date if it was something like "4,543,588,234 days since the beginning of time"), I've been bred with the tendency to write New Year's resolutions. Actually, I just like lists. Notebooks litter my house like some weird nerd frat party, although most of them only have one or two pages filled in. Knowing that I have anywhere from ten to thirty notebooks/notepads/post-it notes/scrolls/etch-a-sketches in my possession, I still tend to run around the house on a frantic man-hunt for a notebook every time I go grocery shopping. And pens, which are everywhere, but nowhere. Pens disappear from this house like socks in the dryer.
I also just turned 36 (hold for applause), so maybe The Case of the Missing Ballpoints is really just the first glimpse of my eventual dementia.
While I'm sure my goal for the next 366 days (leap year holllaaaaa) will bleed into these posts, I typically play things close to the vest, mostly to avoid the inherent shame of declaring that THIS YEAR I'M GOING TO TRAIN MONKEYS TO CREATE A TO-SCALE REPLICA OF MANHATTAN and by the end of the year I've only managed to train one monkey, and his shoddy Rockefeller Center will never stand in even a light breeze.
I, like most humans who have ever been in a relationship, prefer actions over words.
This is why I feel relatively comfortable in revealing that one of my resolutions is to make my family Sunday dinner every week this year.
Living in a house with a) a daughter that claims she'll eat anything but has been known to deconstruct sandwiches because "I just felt like eating cheese and mayo", b) two parents that are basically paleo but more restrictive...kind of like cavemen who didn't farm but looted the same village over and over again ("shit, MORE sweet potatoes?"), and c) me, who hovers between vegetarian and vegan with the occasional smattering of seafood (smaller carbon footprint, often wild-caught, other hippie excuses) makes it difficult to create a meal that would satisfy everyone's personal preferences.
Still, there's plenty of rewards and very little risk. Having an interesting meal every Sunday creates some anticipation to get me through a week's worth of less-inspired fare. It's easier to eat Salad #10 on Saturday if I know Sunday is going to be something more flavorful. And, when I cook, my daughter always gets involved. Sometimes she's helpful: measuring out spices, stirring every few minutes, etc. Sometimes she'll pretend she owns a restaurant and create a menu, and table setting, and light some candles. I'm not saying this isn't helpful, too...but one time she did "fire" me after I forgot to make dessert.
And, more than anything, I like to cook. It's cathartic. It's fun. I feel slightly more accomplished when I eat a meal that I've also prepared. And it's always, always, always, always cheaper than something you'd order in a restaurant, that may or may not have been pre-cooked and flash-frozen (I'm about 75% sure Chili's kitchen is just one huge microwave).
This week I figured the drop in temperature demanded something warm and spicy, and after typing "warm and spicy" into Google and avoiding all the porn sites, I discovered Caldo de Camarón: a Mexican soup with shrimp. To turn it into a meal I'm adding my take on elote (corn on the cob done all "Mexican street food" style...except mine's without the cob), recipe co-opted from here, and some refried beans.
One quick note on the recipe: what in the hell is a chayote? Wikipedia says that it's basically a Costa Rican squash. According to the produce clerks at Market District, it's a "we don't sell...what did you call them? Chay-oties? Yeah, no." I decided that a squash is a squash and substituted zucchini, since it's also green with a fairly exotic (albeit more familiar) name.
I'll spare yinz the making-of photos, since you've already had to endure several hundred lines of rambling, but here's the input/output.
Here's the before (minus the corn ingredients):
And the after. The entire house smells like ancho peppers...or what I'm now calling Mexican potpourri:
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