I received some very nice presents for Christmas this year but one of my favorites is a set of Barefoot Contessa cookbooks my mom gave me. Since I'm in my mid-30's I'm allegedly too old to be jealous of presents my brother receives but last year my mom gave him the same thing, and I vocalized that I wouldn't mind receiving what he got. It's not the cookbooks that are special, you see, but that my mom took the time to go through them and put in her own notes from the recipes she tried. This one is four stars (anything less than that is not worth making), this one is easy and maybe you could add some chives, that one gets a big X through it for not being worth your time.

The past week I've been poring through the cookbooks, making myself hungry dreaming of all the things I want to cook. With that desire, though, comes a bit of a culinary identity crisis. I'm always trying to figure out who I am in the kitchen. I used to think I was going to just replicate my mom's style of cooking, which was pretty much typically Ina Garten-type fare even before Ina Garten was a thing (some McDonald's or a frozen chicken patty snuck in there sometimes, just because my mom is human.) But I realized that it was unreasonable of me to think that I could work a full time job, have a child, and come home after work every day and make a beautiful home-cooked meal that doesn't take too long that happened to appeal to my fairly picky husband (things he doesn't eat: Veal. Lamb. Chicken with bones in it. Red meat that is cooked below well. Anything beyond a sprinkling of cheese. Mushrooms. Eggplant. Noticeable onions. Tomatoes.) How easy is that? Not very, it turns out.

So for awhile I kind of checked out of cooking with any real ambition, especially when we were moving. I make one pasta dish when I'm having people over that doesn't require more work than dicing an onion. I stocked our fridge with quick frozen foods. I refamiliarized myself with fish sticks. Grilled cheese and soup made regular appearances. Sometimes slow-cooker meals that I was only sort of enthusiastic about that always left way too many leftovers. 

But maybe I'm coming back, a little bit, now that we're solidly in the forever home, things are finding their place and we temporarily only have one child. I realize that now, when I'm pregnant and might as well eat delicious foods that I enjoy without thinking about them too hard, it's time to get back to trying out new stuff, especially now that I'm a more confident cook who isn't afraid to use what's in my pantry instead of somewhat-similar special ingredients and who knows that if I fail, there is always a frozen pizza in the pantry. I don't have to pick a type of cook that I am--I don't have to be a Barefoot Contessa or a Pioneer Woman or a Smitten Kitchen. I can try them all on when it suits me. Nobody really cares except me.

I'm still freaking out a little bit, though. I emailed Deb Perelman last night in a panic asking whether she thinks the 12-oz gratin dishes I bought the other day are the wrong size. I still haven't solved what to do with the recipes I want to try that Steve won't, like rack of lamb or herbed ricotta bruschetta or eggplant gratin. Maybe I'll just make them and he can have one of those stupid frozen pizzas, or maybe he'll discover that he likes eggplant when it's made a certain way. Or maybe you guys can all come over and try this stuff with me. Bring the good olive oil.