
I taught myself to cook over 7 years ago and I imagined over those first culinary delights that I’d eventually become better at the art. Alas, it seems my initial joy at creating lovely meals for my man has never really progressed past the basics of following a recipe and, over the last
year, become something of a drag. For those of you whose job it is to
get dinner on the table every night, I’m sure you share my pain in
coming up with new and tasty ways to cook the same old ingredients.
(Working at a food zine has only contributed to my malaise.) I
used to enjoy the process of preparing a new dish, but now I find
myself more and more disappointed with the results. Mostly because the
½ hour of eating rarely justifies the hours of cooking. Not that my
food comes out bad, it just isn’t as extraordinary as I continually
hope it will be.
My inherent laziness and current lack of enthusiasm compelled me to
purchase The Best Casserole Cookbook Ever, a fairly large tome of over
500 recipes that require very little effort to convert everyday items
into comfort food. My husband, who rarely comments on my cooking, has
been loving dinner lately. Partly because the meals are simple and
hearty (he's from the Mid-West, nuff said) and partly because the mess left behind – I cook, he cleans – has been quite minimal. A win-win situation for him. There’s just
something about throwing a bunch of ingredients in a pot, walking away
and returning a few hours later to a scrumptious, yummy meal that’s
really working for me right now. Plus, it makes the house smell
wonderful for hours.




As I was reading the introduction to Russell Van Kraayenburg’s cookbook,