I was a picky eater, so I should not have been surprised to discover that my children were picky eaters, too—it's nature, however much we urge and force them to try a little bite of this and a spoonful of that. But like my mother (and my daughters), I learned to cook in order to satisfy myself. The result of this is that over the years, dinnertime has been an occasion of much consternation. I might set before them a dish of chicken breasts sprinkled with smoked paprika and baked over a bed of sliced onions, fresh rosemary, and lemon. Their noses would wrinkle, and then they would help themselves to some salad (maybe). Or the pot roast—what could be more benign than browned rump roast cooked with tomatoes, onions, and broth, a spoonful of fennel seed, and added potatoes, mushrooms, and carrots? The answer, apparently, a peanut butter sandwich. But now the children are on their own, eating what they please, and so are we. And everyday, sometime before lunch, we say, "Hmmm. What shall we have for dinner?" And then the day opens out before us—the activities we are going to engage in, such as writing, errands, horseback riding, plumbing, tree-trimming, draining the septic tank, have a climax and a denouement. There may be frustrations and misadventures, but those are going to end in something quiet and delightful, two chairs pulled up to the kitchen counter, nothing formal, and an array of treats. There will be dogs lying here and there, but they don't beg, they only wait patiently for things to drop.
Last night, I made chicken-breast Wiener schnitzel. I've never made Wiener schnitzel before, and the recipe said to pound the chicken breasts flat with a frying pan. When we were finished pounding, the two chicken breasts were each about a foot square and could only be cooked one at a time, but they were delicious—how had I spent so many years overlooking the divine combination of chicken, breadcrumbs, sizzling oil, white wine, garlic, and lemon juice? Three nights ago, we had artichoke bisque and homemade bread, the night before that, we collaborated on my partner Jack's famous Trenton tomato pie—first you heat the pizza stone to 450 degrees, then you slide the pie off your paddle using bits of polenta as ball bearings. The pie, of course, half white and half wholewheat, is built cheese first, followed by roasted garlic, sliced sweet pepper, chopped basil, a bit of bacon, and then the stewed tomatoes distributed here and there, with Italian herbs and olive oil as the final garnish. Crispy! We should open a restaurant! We almost didn't follow our health rule, which is always to leave something on your plate, and enough on the platter for lunch.
But the pleasure of dinner is more than the food. I think first it is the anticipation of the food—after I've been thinking about dinner all day, I really can't wait to get started cooking. I put on some music (lately Keb' Mo). Jack passes in and out, noting my progress and appreciating the ingredients as they appear and are transformed (often helping transform them). By a quarter to seven, we are sniffing those roasted potatoes or checking how brown the chicken skin is. At seven, we are doing the Pavlov thing—no dinner bell needed. When the food is set out, we stare at it, and then, ceremoniously, serve it up. Is it really good? Well, one of the children wouldn't eat it because it is not vegetarian, another disdains it because it is "comfort food" and she likes more exotic fare, a third simply doesn't eat home cooking, a fourth prefers something spicier, and the fifth is suspicious about unfamiliar flavors. They think of it as food. We eat it, we enjoy it, but we think of it as a multitude of pleasures, not the least of which is just sitting there, side by side, chatting about the day and making incidental jokes and remarks, feeling the evening breeze through the open windows, seeing the slant of summer light across the floor, knowing that another day has passed in its own way, and if there's been success (The leak is stopped! The horse behaved himself!) we're lucky, and if there's been upset, well, it's suspended for the moment, and tomorrow is another day.