I’m a lazy blogger. I rarely have time or inclination to seek out other food and travel bloggers. The ones I know and like have all come to me (The Homesick Texan, A Thinking Stomach, Daily Gluttony, etc) via comments, which I greatly appreciate.

And now, thanks to a comment on a Flickr photo, I’ve encountered another one, which is gorgeous eye candy and a topic after my own heart: Water Boils. It’s dedicated to boxed lunches.

When I was little, I was entirely responsible for my school lunches. This meant I bought a Peanuts-branded sandwich cookbook from that Scholastic catalog in third grade, and learned to make a million variations on peanut butter sandwich. This meant I would take things like canned sardines and Saltine crackers to the cafeteria, in my purple ‘Disco’ lunchbox. I was not exactly popular. But I really liked my lunches.

And now, as an occasional freelancer in the wastelands of Midtown, I still take great satisfaction in packing my lunch. No $7 sandwich for me, thanks. No heaping mound of halal-whatever-with-MSG. Occasionally I get a fussy officemate who laments the presence of garlic, but occasionally too I get a neighbor who says, “Ooooh, that smells great! What’d you bring?”

Anyhoo, I’m happy to see someone else in the world is just as obsessed–OK, who am I kidding, a hell of a lot more obsessed–with boxed lunches. Must get me a tiffin.

(Thanks so much to all the interesting people who stop by here. I need to get out more.)

So, paella went OK. I mean, it tasted great, and everyone ate well and seemed to have a good time. There are some pics over here.

But.

I got more pleasure out of cooking dinner last week–one of those dinners that starts with, ‘Crap–the fridge is empty!’

Then I remembered the beet greens (shamelessly scavenged at the Greenmarket, as the guys offer to rip them off the beet bunches, and then they just wind up in a heap on the ground).

As I was chopping up the garlic to use as a base for those, I thought some yogurt would go nicely, and we had just a little bit of the thick Greek stuff left. So I crushed an extra garlic clove for that.

The yogurt made me think of the Turkish combo of poached eggs with garlic yogurt. We had a lot of eggs, and they weren’t gettin’ any fresher. Presto, protein.

The beet greens were wedged in a bag with a bunch of radishes (the thing I actually paid for at the beet-farmer’s stall–I’m not that shameless). I figured since the beet greens (and heck, throw in some of the radish tops) were going to be sharp and garlicky, maybe I could tone down the radishes by simmering them in butter–but not so much they lost their crunch, which would be necessary contrast to the soft greens. We also had some leftover beef stock, so I threw in a glug of that, and went and ripped a handful of chives out of the front patch, for color.

Then starch. Something about the greens made me think: polenta. Which we didn’t have. But we did have semolina. Not such an exciting texture, but a perfectly good starch, especially once I added the last of a container of heavy cream that had been sitting at the back of the top shelf for a looong time (ultra-pasteurization can be a good thing, I guess). And grated in some random cheese that had been otherwise unappreciated.

Poached the eggs. Put ’em on a bed of semolina mush. Scooped on the veg. Dolloped the yogurt. Sprinkled Turkish pepper on the eggs for color and a smidge of heat. Beautiful. Nutritious.

But what was most exciting about the meal was the way my brain was firing as I made it. I didn’t have to sit and plan–I just started working, and while my hands did their bit, my brain was running two steps ahead: ‘Gonna need cheese for the semolina. Right–the cacciowhatever, get rid of that finally… Radishes look so sickly when they’re sauteed. Good–give those chives a little action.’ It’s a feeling that people who don’t yet know how to cook can’t understand–for them, cooking is all about cleaning dishes, lingering smells, other drawbacks. But once you get an inkling of this feeling, you’re hooked.

This feeling is also the closest thing to working in a restaurant kitchen–that’s more adrenaline, but the same autopilot coordination. But at home, of course, you also get to be creative.

Which is why more people should aspire to be home cooks, not schmancy resto chefs. And why more people should cook dinner for themselves and a few friends, rather than for twice-a-year, planning-requiring blowouts. If you don’t believe me, read Robert Farrar Capon for inspiration.

End sermon.