My partner is vegetarian (I gave up after my year-long college stint) but we both eat fish, so most of the recipes I selected were vegetable- or fish-based. Here's a typical Blue Apron box of ingredients, which looks pretty similar to one of my Gousto boxes.
On special occasions, I'd pick up English muffins and pasta sauce and make "personal pizzas" by popping a couple of muffins in the toaster and slathering them with tomato sauce and cheese. In San Diego, this was pretty easy - canned refried beans were cheap and a massive bag of fresh corn tortillas cost less than a dollar at the local grocery store, so- I subsisted mainly on bean-and-cheese quesadillas. Since I'd somehow managed to avoid my mom's numerous attempts at showing me the way around the kitchen, I ended up making most of my food in the microwave in our dorm's common area. In college, in a half-hearted attempt to eat healthier and be kinder to the environment, I became vegetarian. Both of my parents worked full-time, so a home-cooked meal every single weeknight simply wasn't an option. On Friday nights, though, we threw rules to the wind and celebrated, either with what my mom and I called a "pizza party" (we'd order a pizza, park ourselves on blankets and pillows on the floor of the living room, and watch a movie) or a trip to my favorite fast-food joint, Taco Bell. Never mind the fact that they weren't cheap, single-portion meals prepared specifically so you could eat them while watching TV weren't exactly conducive to my mom's idea of a family meal. To put it simply, "TV dinners" were not a thing in my family. If I didn't like whatever she'd made, I was allowed to excuse myself to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and eat that at the table with my parents instead, but the required walk of shame to the kitchen often kept me in my seat. I was not to leave the table until that plate was clean.
Digging into the layers of pasta, cheese, meat, and veggies, my mom would carefully slice a hefty portion and place it, still steaming, onto my plate. The main entree, prepared by my mom, was usually a casserole of some sort. It often indicates a user profile.Ĭontrary to what you might think about my upbringing based on my lack of cooking skills, there was one lesson my mom taught me about food as a kid growing up in a working class neighborhood in Los Angeles, California: Eating is something you do together.įor years, I remember being called to the table by the sound of clanking silverware and the smell of roast chicken or beef wafting in our kitchen.
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