When I come to write here, I don’t usually plan what I’m going to say.  Sometimes I have something on my mind, sometimes I’m frustrated or sad or nostalgic or trying to work through something.  Other times I’m just talking to talk.  I start writing and then I quickly check for spelling errors and hit publish.

Recently I’ve read a few blogs and I realize that other people put a lot more time and thought into their posts.  Which might explain why mine isn’t a rampant success but rather just one in a sea of millions of websites that no one visits.

It’s all good.  I’m okay with that.  It’s my glorified diary, my outlet for my rambling mind.

Today I made cacio e pepe for dinner with the remainder of the pasta I rolled out for Christmas Eve.  We’d shoved it in a bag and thrown it in the freezer because we just had no idea when we’d use it, and the leftovers from Christmas Eve are still lingering in our fridge, waiting for trash day on Thursday.    (One can only eat so many stuffed squid before one can no longer eat any more stuffed squid … and yet somehow, a plethora remain …).

What I loved about the recipe (which I’d attempted once before) is its claim of simplicity.  Like many Italian dishes, that’s somewhat misleading.  It is indeed simple (aka, only four ingredients! Minimal prep and preparation time! Yay!!).  However, there’s an art to cacio e pepe like there’s an art to agli e olio … and I haven’t mastered it yet.

It tasted fine.  I mean, cheese and pepper can’t be bad, right?  But it didn’t melt properly and I used too much pasta water (I think?) and while it was an incredibly edible meal, I was bummed.  On the plus side, the burst cherry tomatoes that I made to top it came out excellently (if I do say so myself, and I do!).  I’ve been playing with the timing and the heat of those for awhile but haven’t done it for a minute so for them to come out so well was a pleasant surprise.

I like cooking but I don’t like the *responsibility* of it.  The duty of it.  The monotonous “we must eat” of it all.  However, making and eating a meal that resembles something nutritious and filling (and adult!) is always a win.  It can feel like art, a creative outlet that is also wildly enjoyable for the taste buds.

But it’s hard.  I don’t know how my grandmother did it.  And she did it EVERY.SINGLE.NIGHT.   My entire life.  Dinner on the table, all of us crowded around, me usually pouting because I didn’t find it appealing (if only I’d understood at the time the genuine privilege to have it at all!).  Always protein and starch and a veg.  Cookies for dessert.  I mean … it’s absolutely amazing when I think about it.

It’s Monday and life has gone back to what it was before the holidays.  There is comfort in that but also some sadness.  For some reason January never feels as warm and cozy as December.  It feels austere, as we all battle to keep our resolutions.  As we struggle to be an ideal that is unrealistic and unattainable.

I mean, I wanted to give up falling asleep to movies during the week and I’ve already decided it was a bad resolution.  And it’s only the 4th day.  (Insert forehead palm emoji here).

But I don’t have a raging headache.  And I get to fall asleep next to John, listening to Lucy chase rabbits in her sleep.  And so today is a good day.

Xox, g