Whenever life gets busy, the first thing that goes out the window is food prep. I'll drink a tea for breakfast, buy a salad for lunch, and door dash dinner with hopes of leftovers for tomorrow. It's not something I'm proud of, but as a freelancer, I've learned to weigh everything by my hourly rate. 

The rising cost of groceries + the cost of my time in purchasing said groceries and preparing a meal (3 hours) = too much for me to stomach. 

 

It's because of this mindset that I've come to perceive something like cooking a hot breakfast a humble luxury. It feels a bit self-indulgent which is exactly why it feels so good. 

 

 

As for me-- I'm currently in Mexico working remotely and asides from sneaking in a cheeky surf, the other thing I'm most excited about is making breakfast every day. 

 

 

“Warmth” emails are for the feels & the human experience. They often feature a story and a recipe from my dear friend Cat who pens her own newsletter Since No One Asked.  

 

This is an unusual statement for me to make, because I love eating. I think about the taste of things almost every moment of every day, and probably think about the act of cooking very little. But as I’ve gotten older, it’s the preparation, the method (and sometimes the madness), the concentration in the kitchen and the reward of making something either for myself or others that makes me excited, happy and comforted.

 

The other day, I came home from a minor operation at the hospital. They’d told me the risks, put me under and I woke up a couple of hours later in a ward, which exclusively reminded me of Grey’s Anatomy, something I tried desperately not to blurt out to my doctors, especially considering I was still pretty loopy from the anaesthesia. Apparently I needed someone to take me home, but I was fine, not really in pain and the loopiness had worn off, so I took the bus home alone. 

 

All I could think about on the bus journey was roasting a chicken. I’d try to buy one earlier that morning to no avail, and I spent 20 minutes conjuring up different recipes and combinations. There are endless ways to roast a chicken. Classic with potatoes and carrots baked in the juices; rubbed with spices and roasted on a rack then shredded apart to be served with noodles; my personal favourite of brining it in soy sauce, water, lemon juice and sugar then roasting it on top of pistachio and sour cherry studded white rice, so all the fat seeps through and creates a crispy crust on the bottom. These were the things that took my mind off excisions and needles and what would happen if the procedure didn’t work. 

 

I returned home to a close friend standing outside my door with two roast chicken sandwiches from the deli, and a huge packet of my favourite truffle crisps. Kismet. She said she knew exactly what to get me – I’m known as the one obsessed with roasting chickens, it seems. We loaded extra mayo into our sandwiches – packed with meat, peppered with rocket and stuffed between two soft and thick wholegrain slices smeared with the good butter – and spoke about crushes and birthdays. I grabbed crisps by the fistful, taking a bite of the sandwich then stuffing two crisps in my mouth, the salty truffled flavours perfuming the creamy bites of chicken. These were not things I’d thought about earlier, but nonetheless were delicious in the moment – a perfect lunch for that time, although I did consider that double roast chicken might be a bit excessive. 

 

Later on another band of friends emerged after work with chocolate chip gelato, lemon cake and crackers. We sat in my living room – the first time they’d visited my flat – and I felt overcome. We ate crunchy, cold and sweet grapes and avoided the subject of break ups that we’d all gone through recently, and I told them I was roasting a chicken if they wanted to stay. But they had places to get to, and after a couple of hours left me to do what I’d intended. It was 7.30pm, an unusual time to start roasting a chicken, but it was only small and I’d been thinking about it all day. I got to work in the kitchen, slicing leeks and potatoes and carrots; mixing chopped garlic and butter to stuff under the skin; bringing beans in stock to a boil, aromatic with herbs; fiercely whisking an egg yolk with oil until it emulsified into a thick, golden sauce. 

 

An hour and a half later, I sat down in my living room – on the floor by the coffee table, where, out of habit, I always eat my dinners – and I tucked into a bowl of brothy beans topped with chicken and potatoes and a big spoonful of aioli. It tasted good. But that wasn’t where I felt satisfaction. It was in the creation of the meal that took me out of my head and into my body; in playing and experimenting rather than overthinking. The process tasted better than the outcome – which isn’t to say it wasn’t tasty (humble brag: it was), but that’s not what meals are all about, sometimes. 

The other day, my best friend and I drove 20 minutes to a service station to eat a McDonald’s breakfast. We weren’t hungover, just in the mood. And hungry. We gorged on double sausage McMuffins and hot, crispy hash browns and creamy hot chocolates surrounded by people who’d come here just as a pitstop as they drove from place to place. This hunger wasn’t about the process, but the taste of salt and a little nostalgia. 

 

The thing I love about food is that it’s not one dimensional – there are certain reasons you eat. And other reasons that you cook. And some days where neither matters at all. Whether it’s the ritual of preparing a meal or the nostalgic taste of something fast, it’s all a pleasure to me. 

 

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Not a chicken recipe, but a pasta one which fulfils both desires of process and outcome. It’s got elements of a carbonara, but instead of bacon there are creamy oyster mushrooms and crunchy green beans. 

 

Two egg yolks

½ punnet of oyster mushrooms (basically about 7-8 big pieces), sliced

¾ cup Pecorino cheese

A knob of butter

Olive oil

Breadcrumbs (I just toasted some panko breadcrumbs in anchovy oil)

Chopped parsley

Your choice of pasta (I used linguine)

 

Cook your oyster mushrooms in the butter with a little olive oil – if they soak it all up, add a splash of white wine (or water if you’d prefer), season with salt and lots of pepper and put the lid on for 5 minutes so they don’t dry out. Cook enough pasta (a big handful for me) in salted boiling water until al dente (or whatever you’d prefer). In a glass bowl, whisk the egg yolks with ½ cup of pecorino and a few big twists of pepper. Add the green beans to the pasta pan to cook until they’re crunchy, then remove both the pasta and green beans with a slotted spoon into a sieve, and set aside. Add a couple of tablespoons of the pasta water into the egg and cheese bowl, whisk then add the pasta and beans, placing the bowl on top of the pasta pan on a low heat. Using tongs, toss everything together, using the steam underneath to help emulsify everything. Turn off the mushrooms then once the pasta is looking glossy, add it to the mushroom pan and toss through. Add the parsley and breadcrumbs then serve up, showering the bowl with the remaining pecorino. 

 

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