How to cook for a picky eater

who can’t cook for themselves (plus, a recipe for sausage and greens pasta)

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admittedly, I did cook this one myself

A little backstory: After lots of acupuncture, weekly Moxabustion, endless inversions, bouncing on the exercise ball, seeing the best chiropractor in New York and all the yoga I could handle, Charlie remained breech the whole time he was in utero. This meant a C-Section was “our path,” which was, in a way, good for me: a person who loves a plan and the illusion of control.

In an effort to “plan” for my impending incapacitation, we nested the best we could. Bought a chest freezer to store all the broths, beans, soups and stews I was going to spend the month making. Started a shared Notes app list of “things I would like to eat postpartum” in case people asked what they could make for/bring me and a separate list of things I could teach Max to make for us when I couldn’t physically get out of bed. (People are often surprised to learn I married someone who doesn’t cook, but I feel like that’s the only way I could make a relationship work. Imagine my lover telling me the best way to sear a steak, why garlic doesn’t actually belong in Carbonara or how they think they could make a better chicken pot pie? I love a healthy discourse, but respectfully: pass!)

Of course, you plan, God laughs, etc. One minute you’re making Split Pea Soup for your future self, the next minute your water’s breaking all over the living room floor. After a very dramatic arrival, Charlie arrived exactly one month early, healthy as can be (very much the overachieving Capricorn he is, not the Aquarius I thought I was getting). The first of many lessons in “acceptance and letting go” this sweet boy is teaching me.

Anyway, I didn’t have time to make any food (unless you count seven containers of Split Pea Soup) before this happened, so thank God for our beautiful friends who brought of all the things I listed in my shared Notes app (lots of broths, containers of pierogi, bags of frozen dumplings). While Max knows how to make a few things that are most important to me– matzo ball soup, Goodbye Meatballs, pork noodle soup– I didn’t have time to show him anything else I anticipated wanting. Various pastas. A basic roast chicken. A very specific frizzled chickpea/sauteed kale/fried egg thing I like to make. Precisely how to cut my cucumbers for a cucumber and cottage cheese snack.

Teaching other people how to cook is what I do for a living, but it’s a very different story to teach someone how to cook specifically for you. Though, for all intents and purposes, I guess that’s what I do every time I write a recipe. I’ve always said my recipes are not necessarily “the best” or “only” way to cook something, rather, it’s how I like something cooked. With each recipe I’m saying: “This is how you cook…for me.” But no matter how good the recipe, some things (often, the small things) are still tough to translate.

In a surprise to nobody, I have extremely specific (annoying) food-related needs, requirements and preferences. I am a Sally Albright sun, moon and rising. I order my neighborhood breakfast with bacon extra crispy and arugula instead of toast. I order salads with dressing on the side and two halves of lemon, and my tuna sandwich at the diner with rye bread, toasted, but if they don't have rye bread, then white bread, untoasted.

Without being totally overbearing and seemingly ungrateful while someone is trying to take care of you, what’s the best way to insist that for your very special little snack, you like your cucumbers cut into spears not chunks (but if they’re for a salad, then it’s slices –not too thick and not too thin)? When you ask for granola and yogurt, you want it in the small shallow flower bowl, not the large deep golden bowl, so that the yogurt and granola can be spooned next to each other (not on top of one another)? That for broth, they give it to you in the big ceramic mug (the tall one, not the squat one) but still with a spoon, and when you ask for your toast in the morning, it needs to be toasted till it’s almost burnt, but not so toasted that it’s too crunchy to eat and the egg should be sunny-side up if served with sourdough, but if the good seedy bread from ACQ, the egg should be a jammy 6-minute one?

Sometimes though, you don’t have to ask. One afternoon while I was in bed convalescing, Max brought me apple slices and peanut butter in one of my late night Etsy purchases. The apples were sliced and fanned out just-so, nestled next to a perfect scoop of “my” peanut butter (yes, we have separate peanut butters), served in the cute little impractical bowl I simply had to have, a thing he would never do for himself but he did for me. Of course, I cried. What a tender gesture, a small and silly and very important beautiful thing to do for someone you love when they need it most. Better than a roast chicken, really.

how to make me cry

About a week before I went into labor, I did knock one thing off the “teach Max how to cook this” list, something I knew I’d want and something I knew he could make: Pasta with Sausage and Greens, a pasta as classic and basic to me as spaghetti and red sauce. The version I had in mind was inspired by both the cavatelli with hot sausage and browned butter at Frankie’s, and the orecchiette with broccoli rabe I ate all over Puglia– heavy on the broccoli rabe and miscellaneous greens, minus the hand-made pasta or trip to Court Street.

Though, I never ended up writing it down because it would force me to make choices I didn’t want to make. Max loves a specific and direct recipe, and does not respond well to my proclivity for loosey-goosey “this or that,” “use X, Y or Z.” If I wrote this down, would I say to slice the sausage in the casing or remove the casing and crumble? Stick to broccoli rabe or open it up to other dark, leafy greens? Would it be a long, thin noodle or fat tube or whimsical shell? I love all these things and the truth is, most work! Why choose? Because it’s all so personal, and otherwise, recipes get too long and too confusing.

Anyway, I finally wrote it down. I’ve taken some liberties and left in a few of my arbitrary and very specific details, so here is how to cook Sausage and Greens Pasta if you’re Max, cooking for me (the printable PDF is a bit more straightforward, don’t worry).

Pasta+with+Sausage+Browned Butter+Broccoli Rabe

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Pasta with Sausage, Browned Butter and Broccoli Rabe

Serves us both with a little bit leftover for lunch tomorrow

2 tablespoons olive oil

½ pound hot or sweet Italian sausage (go to Paisanos), casings removed*

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

4–6 cloves garlic, thinly sliced (the long way, not short way)

½ bunch broccoli rabe or kale, bottom ends trimmed, leaves and stems torn with your hands into bite-sized pieces (not chopped, I don’t like the way that looks)**

Kosher salt, freshly ground black pepper

½ bag pasta (use the bag of short squiggly shape I forget the name of)***

A hunk of parmesan or pecorino, for grating

Crushed red pepper flakes

*or ground pork from the freezer, seasoned with a little sprinkle of fennel seed and crushed red pepper flakes

**most greens work here, like Swiss chard or even chopped broccolini or even toss in that container of cut up cabbage that’s hiding behind the anchovies on the second shelf

***if we don’t have that one, use the rigatoni, but in the future any shape will work, but prefer small, short tube-ish vs. long thin noodle

1. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook pasta until it’s nicely al dente (too undercooked to enjoy out of the pot, but not so hard it feels like dried pasta). Set aside 1 cup of the pasta water (use the measuring cup) and drain; set pasta and pasta water aside.

2. While you wait for that, heat olive oil in the largest skillet we have (stainless steel) over medium heat. Breaking off a few little pieces at a time, add sausage to the skillet. The best way to describe this is to break off the sausage like you’re feeding white bread to ducks at the park– small, irregular little bits tossed into the skillet– this way, the sausage doesn’t clump together.

3. Let the sausage cook, stirring occasionally to keep it broken up and browning all over, until it’s golden brown and starting to look a little crispy, like it came from the top of a pizza, 5–8 minutes (and make sure there aren’t any large pieces of sausage, I like lots of smaller, crispy pieces). Add the butter, letting it melt and brown around the sausage, a minute or two.

4. Increase heat to medium–high and add garlic. Give it a stir to evenly coat in the fat and cook, stirring occasionally, until it’s nicely browned, like little garlic chips, 90 seconds or so (if it’s getting too dark too quickly, turn the heat down).

5. Starting with one large handful, add the stem parts of the greens first (these will take longer to cook) and season with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the leaves start wilting down and stems turn bright neon green. As there’s room in the skillet, add remaining greens by the handful, cooking until wilted before adding more (don't forget to season with salt and pepper with each addition).

6. Once greens are wilted and cooked and taste wonderful, add pasta and ½ cup of pasta water to the skillet. Cook, tossing and stirring frequently, until the pasta is cooked through (taste a piece of pasta after a few minutes to test) and the sauce is, well, saucy (it should be nicely thickened, almost creamy looking, not watery), 5 or so minutes (you can and should add more pasta water if the skillet looks dry before the pasta is cooked).

7. Remove from heat, add some cheese and lots of pepper (more than you usually add) directly to the skillet and toss to combine. Spoon into bowls (use the shallow, not deep bowls) and top with more parmesan, some crushed red pepper flakes and more black pepper.