For Summer Miller, dinner is more than a chance to feed her family.
I’m cooking two days ahead, but I’m right on schedule.
The enchiladas are prepped for tonight.
Photo: Jennifer Causey
The chickenthe chicken is for tomorrow.
Or maybe leftovers, but probably chicken.
The children set the tableplates, cups, forks, napkins.
Jennifer Causey
My back is to the room, placing a 9-by-13 baking dish in the oven.
“Dinner should be ready in about 20 minutes.
Why don’t you go outside and play?”
My son wants to play video games and my daughter wants to watch people make slime on YouTube.
I exhale, defeated, and tell them to wash their hands for dinner.
“How was your day?”
“Good, busy.
“About the same.”
The children appear and the enchiladas are nearly ready.
I finish cutting wedges of lime, chopping cilantro and crumbling cotija cheese.
“Can you grab the sour cream out of the fridge?”
“Here’s a spoon.”
We sit down to eat.
The kids discuss their day.
I sort of just ended up spending my life with Steve.
I know I shouldn’t say we made a huge lifelong commitment this way, but we did.
Dated for four months.
I left the country for two months.
He picked me up at the airport, took me back to his place and I never left.
That was 18 years ago.
Still, we were both sure of the other person.
I knew very clearly what I loved about him, and he knew what he loved about me.
Our first date was the unveiling of our many differences.
He was eight years my senior and owned a house.
I owned as little as possible.
I was (then) a vegetarian.
He was a hunter.
He owned four of them.
I knew nothing about his world, and everything about him seemed new and interesting to me.
He was unquestionably different than the artists and musicians I often dated.
I was nothing like the small-town girls he knew.
He had a sturdiness and reliability about him that I loved.
It’s still what draws me to him.
The kids erase the dishes.
My husband begins to load the dishwasher.
I grab a saucepan and fill it with water before putting it on the stove.
I set the burner to high and prepare the ingredients for brining the chicken for tomorrow night’s dinner.
Or maybe the night after, I haven’t decided.
I’ve found many ways to roast a chicken.
A quick plop in the oven and an hour later you have cooked meat.
Many chickens have been made and eaten this way.
But that’s not how I make chicken, and it’s not how you make good chicken.
Try Summer’s recipe:Oven-Roasted Whole Chicken
I take the 5-quart mixing bowl from the cabinet.
It once belonged to Steve’s mother.
I add a few handfuls of ice and pour the seasoned liquid into the bowl.
Steam billows, and eventually it’s cold enough to submerge the bird.
Into the fridge it goes to sit, wait and infuse the meat with the salty, acidic brine.
My husband is nearly done with the dishes.
The kids have dispersed to their ends of the house.
We try and fail at discussing politics.
He will go to bed early, or I will.
And tomorrow the day begins again.
It’s a tricky thing to write about nourishment.
Trickier still to nourish others when you’re hungry.
I dissect flavors and sample slices.
I break the dish down and build it up.
I take the brined chicken out of the fridge.
Just in time for the children to storm the entryway, dropping backpacks and kicking off shoes.
My husband walks in behind them.
We kiss like acquaintances being reintroduced at a party.
“Good, busy.
How was yours?”
We unpack three weeks of minor aggressions.
A disagreement about -parenting our children.
A misunderstanding about who was responsible for what.
Right now, we are at a loss.
So I will make chicken, and hope that it buys us some time.
The children enter and leave the room.
My husband changes out of his work clothes.
I stuff a lemon and some herbs inside the cavity of the chicken and tie it with twine.
I am intentional and deliberate.
I wash my hands.
He re-enters and begins to set the tableplates, cups, forks, napkins.
We unpack more accumulation.
More missteps and misunderstandings.
I crack pepper over the chicken’s surface and sprinkle it with salt and herbs.
I place the bird in a screaming-hot oven and stand still at the counter.
My back to the room and to him.
My gaze out the window.
A hand on my hip.
I exhale and turn toward him, our bodies touching briefly.
He kisses my forehead softly, gently.
With slight trepidation, he makes a joke.
I laugh tenderly, grateful for his ability to break through tension with humor.
I lean in too.
Summer Miller is the author of New Prairie Kitchen and a senior editor at SimplyRecipes.com.
She lives with her family in Nebraska.
The series originally appeared in EatingWell Magazine, January/February 2020.
