So many new places to eat are opening up these days. Not just in my neighborhood (in which there are a lot of great new places to explore and turn into hangouts…yay!) but all over. Our local dining scene has never been more vibrant. It is truly a diners market where one has a dizzying array of choices. There are those maverick independents whose delicious and creative offerings are the work of a brave soul armed with just his (or her!) passion and the desire to share it. Then there is the multitude of seeds being sowed by big gutsy restaurant groups – whose fruit seems to be sprouting like wildflowers one on top of the other, both local concepts and exciting foreign franchises. And every delicious drop in between.
It’s almost magic…that little trill of electricity that goes up and down our spine when we whisper that auspicious question: “Where do we eat?”
Often though, despite the glittering siren song of dazzling new dishes put together by fancy chefs and daring cooks, what we crave for is a little closer to home. Right at home actually, to be exact. The homely looking, the unsophisticated, the familiar tastes and comforting flavors, those dishes that look frumpy and plain and unready at all for an Instagram feed. Those dishes, homemade dishes, lovingly put together in our favorite pot, stirred through by our worn wooden spoon, scorched in parts and frayed in others, served directly in the cooking vessel, a tattered trivet slipped under it. The nights when we can all gather around the table, saying a grace, or having the little one say it even if we don’t understand half of what she carefully mutters. Slippers hanging on feet. Little C, feet off the chair please! My plate is chipped and I’m thinking, “When will we ever get another set?” We tuck in, ladle food out onto waiting plates. Contented sighs. Simple joys.
