A (27:12)
Yes, this is a chapter called Good Things Are Better shared. Several years ago, my friend Greta Caruso began having friends over to her apartment in New York City every Sunday night for dinner. Even though she's a wonderful cook, the dinners were never extravagant. Instead, each was an occasion for Greta to reconnect with close friends and a way for her to anchor her weekend. At the time, I visited New York often for work. The dinners were so special that I started planning my trips around them. At Greta's table, I witnessed whims evolve into traditions. I watched my friend take pleasure in creating beauty as she set the table with her favorite vintage linens, candlesticks, and flower arrangements. Each week, when the bowl of Castelvetrano olives appeared, we'd all instinctively put our phones down. Not because Greta had decreed it, but because it felt so nice to be together for a few hours, no matter what was happening in the outside world. I've spent my entire adult life gathering at rowdy tables for delicious meals. But something about those Sunday dinners was different. Greta's focus was less about what was on the table and more on who was around it. Though I sat there dozens of times, I could probably tell you only a couple of things we ate. Yet I can recall scores of jokes and stories and all the times I was kicked under the table for being dense. I remember the buzzy thrill of being introduced to new romantic partners and the heaviness of consoling, grieving friends. The deep sense of friendship and community I felt at Greta's dinners made me want to create a similar ritual for myself. At the time, my career was shifting. I was traveling constantly and felt unmoored in my own life. Though I had been cooking for decades by then, it was rarely in such a casual, communal way for the people closest and most important to me. And something about that felt wrong. I made many excuses for it over the years, but the one I relied on most was My apartment was too small for a proper dining table. Where would people sit? How could I host a weekly dinner without a table? On one level, I knew this was irrational. I've always encouraged others to think more expansively about space and let go of convention. Sit on the floor, I'd declare. Sit on the couch. Eat at the coffee table. And yet I couldn't do it myself. My own hypocrisy weighed on me at any rate. I wasn't home. I was out in the world, filming and then promoting a documentary series on book and speaking tours, out reporting my column in the New York Times Magazine. I didn't have time to institute any sort of ritual, and if I did, would my friends even come? I turned these thoughts over in my mind until, exhausted, I stopped traveling so much. I moved out of the tiny apartment into a hand built house in Oakland with its own little dining area. The first thing I did after unpacking was a commission, a woodworker friend to build me a table. Finally, I thought I'd make my own Sunday dinners happen. But the pandemic shut down the world the week after the table arrived. It didn't help that I'd also begin to descend into an abyss of depression. Sitting by myself at my gorgeous table in my beautiful home, I examined my life. What good was everything I'd achieved if I felt so unbearably sad and alone? One morning a year and a half later, I was testing a recipe at home. I'd been working on a pork braise inspired by tacos al pastor. But whether I was depressed, unqualified, or the task itself was impossible, I kept failing miserably. And with each failure I grew sadder and more unsure of myself. My friend Sarah texted me to see if I was up for a visit. We'd known each other for more than 10 years. We were the kind of friends usually brought together by an outside force rather than of our own volition. She was at the farmer's market nearby with her kids who wanted to come see my pup, Fava. Of course, I responded. I'm just here ruining some pork. While the kids played with fava in the yard, Sarah asked what was wrong. I don't know, I said. I just can't get this braise right. It's haunting me. And to make matters worse, I'll be stuck with six pounds of braised pork to eat by myself. Well, we'll help you eat it, she offered with a coy smoke. Mile. Maybe it's because I was feeling so low at the time, or so deprived of casual gatherings that didn't require complicated arrangements and Covid tests. But I was so lonely and starved for connection that I received Sarah's casual offer like a vial of life saving elixir. When I quickly asked, worried that she might recant, how about Tuesday at our house? Sarah proposed. Two days later I arrived at her door, pork in hand. We shredded it into a dinner of tacos, for which everyone was grateful, no one as much as me. The braise may not have been a major culinary achievement, but it did just fine for dinner on a Tuesday night in Oakland. It was so natural and nice to be together that as the evening ended, we all wondered, should we do it again next Tuesday? We've continued gathering weekly ever since, though Monday nights eventually became our standing date. It took nearly eight months of Monday dinners for me to realize I'd inadvertently built the ritual I'd so craved. It just looks different than I'd initially imagined. At our Monday dinners, I've learned how to share both responsibility and credit. I've learned that if I let other people care for me, they will. I've learned how it feels to build something sacred with people I love. We'll often say, only half joking, that Monday dinner is our religion. And while everyone in our group loves to cook and eat, no one person, not even me, directs the menus or does all of the cooking. Sure, sometimes I have a recipe or two I want to test and share. But other people's desires, interests and constraints also influence what we eat when we can. We take advantage of our many hands and make dumplings, tamales, ravioli or another labor intensive assembly line dish. And when I encounter a special occasion ingredient while shopping a perfect side of wild salmon, say, or first of the season crab, I snag it for us. Because while Monday dinner isn't a dinner party, it is a special occasion. Four years in, this ritual and the community that sustains it are at the heart of my life. These friends have taught me what it means to belong, and I've finally found the sense of meaning in cooking and in life that I've sought for so long. It brings me indescribable joy to share food with my Monday dinner family. Whenever I nail a new recipe or stumble upon a cache of ripe fruit, I immediately begin planning how to incorporate it into our next meal. But this isn't to say that we always make fancy or complicated food. When it's hot, we pull out the kiddie pool and eat hot dogs and popsicles. When we're too tired to cook, we'll order empanadas or pizza and throw together a salad. What we eat together matters far less than the fact that we eat together. So in the spirit of Monday Dinner, this chapter is a compilation of dishes best shared with others, whether for the amounts they yield, the time and effort they require, or the communal pleasure they offer. And I gotta call out that Monday Dinner family is here in the audience tonight, so.
