At lunch yesterday, Lyle said he “had dinner.” My schedule is flexible, so normally I charge myself with menu planning or, more realistically put, ingredient-selecting meditation. But we had watched Jamie Oliver cooking shows the night before, and I likely remarked that I enjoy Jamie’s people-pleasing cooking process. Lyle seemed inspired, and so I let go of my day’s self-assigned dinner duty.
That was not easy. In the mellow day-ending, evening-beginning transition, I realized that I thrive in that golden time frame. I love selecting ingredients and placing them in batches on the counter: these for the protein, these for the vegetables, these for the sauce, and silverware on the table, along with a specific hot sauce or sometimes salsa, chutney, mustard, or soy sauce.
I felt lost. I took portraits of our dogs, Ellie and Daisy, and cats, Chili and Eddie.
I cleaned the counter again. Though I didn’t know what Lyle planned to make, I set the table.
Lyle came home with a bag of groceries and a printed recipe from the New York Times. He asked me to take the night off. But the second I saw the recipe and learned that we were going to make it for two people rather than four, I started adjusting the ingredient amounts on the sheet of paper and opening refrigerator and cabinet drawers. I placed a mixing bowl and baking dish on the counter.
While I was doing this, Lyle changed out of his work clothes into more comfortable gear — what I call his “Mr. Rogers Time.” He walked into the kitchen and, seeing my preparation underway, gave me an assignment: Let him make dinner. He suggested I turn off the news and, instead of cooking, do something else I enjoy, like playing music.
I stood at the kitchen counter with him, but instead of organizing the measuring cups and spoons, I started organizing a playlist.
When the baked salmon on dilled rice with mango chutney and hot sauce was finished, we listened to my soundtrack with our dinner. I had let go; he had jumped in. We enjoyed our dinner and our music, then we both did the dishes.
We sometimes talk about what we might want for dinner before it’s time to make it, but many days, dinner just kind of happens. I look through the refrigerator drawers and determine what needs to be used. Then food combinations present themselves. Or sometimes it’s even more basic: The day feels like tacos.
Taking myself out of that head space opened my brain to be differently present. Many nights, while I’m focused on food, Lyle is compatibly focused on our soundtrack or finding concert tickets. Last night we altered our patterns.
I got a kick out of how I learned what Lyle wanted for dinner. He chose a recipe, printed it along with select remarks from other readers, took it with him to the grocery store, and texted me to make sure we had ground turmeric.
I delight in curating things for people: food, music, movies, poems, books. But it was good to take a step aside and let Lyle curate food for me.
Years ago, at a memorial service for a lost friend, a speaker suggested that one thing we can do to live better is to show up. She explained that we showed up that day to remember and honor our friend. She encouraged us to continue to find ways in our lives to show up. Surrounded by people I’d known for decades, the idea hit home. I’ve thought about it many times since, especially in smaller moments.
Last night, I missed cooking and realized how much I enjoy it. I liked being surprised by the dinner selection, though, and I loved being taken care of. Lyle knows I love to cook, but he also knows it’s not my only interest. He asked me to take a break and focus on one of my other passions. It was tough at first to let go of my self-appointed daily dinner making, but then I made a 55-song, 4-hour-and-19-minute playlist.
Tonight, we’re a little tired from listening to my playlist too late, and neither of us wants to cook. Still, it’s dark, bitter, and rainy, so we want to stay in. We try to keep things on hand for nights like this. Thanks to Pasta La Fata, we’ve got Italian meat sauce in the freezer and fresh rigatoni in the fridge. Together, we’ll both appreciate someone else fixing our dinner. Maybe we’ll finish the playlist. Sometimes, showing up means offering to make dinner. Sometimes, it means being thankful, saying yes.
