The Mellow Melancholy of Meal-Planning Misery

Dear Tamar,

I used to plan dinner no more than a few hours ahead—often just looking in the fridge at dinner time and seeing what needed to be used. I'm good tricks like caramelizing onions, having cooked beans in the freezer, etc. Now, with a 5-year old and a 3-year old, I've moved into the meal-planning approach. I'm good at it, too. But I kind of hate it. How can I approach menu planning so that it feels less rote and repetitive?

-Meal-Planning Misery

Dear Meal Planning Misery:

One night, with our infant son swinging in a doorframe sling, my husband and I lost it. It was autumn and not quite dark. We’d been on the cusp of starting the pre-sleep ritual—a litany of superstitious ceremonies on which we hung all our hopes: heat the milk, play the songs, adjust the light, do the diaper change, spray the lavender, feed, pat, kiss, tip-toe, knock, return, wait, return, hope, wait, return, hope…I’m sure you had a version. Our infant took two naps. The whole metaphysical fiasco happened thrice daily; at 10 am, 2 pm, and 7 pm.

The night in question, one of us, holding a breast pump flange like a tambourine, began singing, hysterically: Do it again. Do it again (to Stayin’ Alive.) The other picked up the refrain. We were laughing, then crying, then both. We leaked tears and saliva and danced around our kitchen island like loons.

Our breakdown was cathartic. It was also prescient. There’s variation among children. And childhood itself is eventful. But parenting is, at its apex form—only occasionally achieved—mind-numbingly repetitive. To permit myself histrionics (to make you feel understood): this repetition is at odds with my soul. To be more practical (and still reinforce my sympathies): it’s at odds with the improvisation that makes cooking engaging and affordable and fun.

So, does one succumb to the repetition of burger night-taco night-pasta night-chicken night? (Do it again. Do it again.) Or stand one’s creative ground, listening to the inner voice whispering that unripe mango makes perfect Goi Xoai, which, plus a pot of rice and a bowl of chopped roasted peanuts, would make a lovely dinner?

My answer is: a little bit of both, in a variable ratio, as your soul and your pragmatism require. My family—me included—love chicken Milanese. I’d like cardboard Milanese. We also like: burgers, rice, and tortillas. We plan, and eat them every week or two.

I resent aspects of it. For example, I resent buying particular cuts of meat—instead of what farmers have available. And the way it goes against just using what’s there.

But, I’ve also found grounds for pleasure in the repetition. I figured out recently that to get excited about chicken Milanese, I must make some sort of drizzling sauce for the two people who danced around the kitchen manically seven years ago. This practice lets me engage my mind, and use up the single peeled shallot, the cold boiled egg, the half bunch of parsley. I also give myself imaginary challenges: Can you make enough Milanese for four people from just two chicken-breast halves? (I can! With strategic pounding and lots of breadcrumbs.)

With other planned meals, I set myself other challenges—known to only me. Two weeks ago, I grated onion into our burger meat, to see if I could replicate the beloved effect of my husband’s burgers containing sautéed shallots. (Kind of!) At a Nowruz lunch, my son tried Kebab Kubideh. Days later I shaped our burgers differently, paving the way for meatballs, kibbeh, shashlik. Tacos let me use up beans, and quickly pickle onion and carrots, marking a path toward all sorts of sourness.

I try to not think too deeply about the parts of our eating I resent. It leaves me better visibility into the parts I can enjoy—the garnishes, the challenges, the rare but rewarding surprise. Am I just counseling to turn lemons into lemonade? Maybe. Maybe all good advice is some version of that suggestion.

Dear cook, remember when the diapers ended? And the nighttime feedings? And the daily reminders to use the potty? It lasts an instant. It feels like an eternity. I recommend digging in deep—can you make enough Milanese for four out of the chicken you have? Is there a way to usher a love of tacos toward a sampling of chilaquiles—and then shakshuka? These questions occupy my mind and my hands. I now share them with you—curiosity loves company even more than misery does. Let’s find out.