I’m looking for one thing when making a weeknight dinner: joy. For breakfast and lunch, I’m content with consuming an amalgamation of soulless fodder—premade salads, frozen food, anything piled into a cardboard bowl—so long as I regain some humanity in the final meal of my day.
When searching for that joy, I primarily lean on nostalgia. Typically, I want a part of the meal—whether it be the process or final flavor—to transport me somewhere I love. Sometimes it’s recreating a dish from childhood (I’ve been on a Sloppy Joe kick), and other times it’s as simple as using a technique I learned from a friend, like breaking down a chicken.
