Nothing Dinner (Unlocked)

and the human need to talk about nothing

Originally published for paying subscribers on February 26, 2023. Unlocked now!

Those snowbound roads we met in Nebraska

I’ve lost my ability to talk about nothing.

It’s an inherent human need, I think, to talk about nothing.

Like how beautiful the evening is, or what shape the clouds are.

Or that episode of “The Office” where they’re trying to decide on whether to use their surplus to buy new chairs or a new copier. And Michael sits down in Pam’s chair, and as he’s talking, he’s slowly sinking lower and lower below the desk and all the people in the office are craning their necks to see him.

I used to be very good at talking about nothing. I’d do it in the passenger’s seat in a snow-bound car on icy roads. I’d do it when I had a friend who was upset and wanted to stop thinking about whatever it was that was upsetting them. I’d change the topic from ice or irritation to Vanilla Ice (you know he designs swimming pools now?) or irrigation (did you know that LA doesn’t have a system to catch their rain fall?).

I would say something about the deliberately delightful and often coincidentally gay comedians I seek out on Instagram. Like the one who pretends to be Kiera Knightley and always says the word “frolic” in that perfect posh way. Or the one who records his therapy sessions. Or the one who has this bit where he’s Satan’s gay receptionist.

Instead, these days I end up, more often than not, talking about The Gorgon (defined as “one of three sisters, Stheno, Euryale, and Medusa, with snakes for hair, who had the power to turn anyone who looked at them to stone”) who lives in the apartment above mine. About how she continually sends missives (defined as “nasty emails”) full of slander (defined as “things that make you go ‘what the hell?’ when you read them”) and threatens war (defined as “sending her lawyer after us”) and just generally causes mayhem. The monster (defined as “a creature that is typically large, ugly, and frightening”) now has her gargantuan troll sons living with her. And my upstairs neighbor (defined as “the bane of my existence”) generally makes my life hell.

So I talk about that a lot.

The skies beginning to clear in Missouri

But if I wanted to talk about nothing, I would talk about how I recently spent a beautiful evening with my husband at the wrong hotel in Lawrence, Kansas. We watched that new show“Cunk on Earth,” which was delightful, and I sipped a giant too-sweet margarita out of an over-sized styrofoam cup.

I say the wrong hotel because the right one was in Hays, Kansas. And the right one the night before that was in Shawnee, Kansas. But instead we stayed in Lawrence and before that in Lincoln, Nebraska. We stayed in the wrong hotels because we got caught in the wrong storm at the wrong time, which the weather people, who I’ve always found to be calming and criminally incorrect, said the storm had plans to be in Missouri while we were in Nebraska and that it definitely wouldn’t meet us on the road.

But it could and did meet us on the road just after lunch. And then it moved on, quite rudely, after we’d changed all of our plans, before cocktails.

Instead, I talk about how the company who manages the property we rent steals money from us. How they said we should put a set of keys in a bag and drive an hour to slide them under the door of an office building because, for some unknown reason, they don’t have a set of keys to the property. How we’re trying so desperately to get out of our lease so we can get away from the mythical creatures (defined as “monsters renowned in folklore and myth,” synonyms: my upstairs neighbors, those narcissistic wack-jobs, etc.) and the thieves, liars, and cheats (defined as “thieves, liars, and cheats”) who manage the apartment.

If I had the mental fortitude to talk about nothing, I’d talk about those unmannered clouds, too dark and ominous to have shapes, we met in the Midwest. How, if I were to name a town in Kansas, I’d call it “Yawn, Kansas.” And then, if they let me name another one, I’d settle it five miles south down the highway, and I’d call it “Beyawned, Kansas.”

Maybe you, my reader, disagree. Maybe you think, and are probably quite right, that talking about nothing is one of my strong points. Maybe you, probably quite rightly, think I talk about nothing but nothing in these pages upon pages.

But I miss talking about nothing when my brain is occupied by everything. And as the sun rises on us slowly through the clouds, I hope there’s room for nothing once again.

And the sun rising on us at last

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This is the dinner I make when my brain is full and my pantry is empty. It’s really “nothing,” but it’s delicious. It uses up those slightly wilted greens that I think we all end up with at the back of our produce drawers, and it’s pretty darn tasty.

I hope that your brain is not as full as mine, that you have the ability to talk about nothing, and that you do it while enjoying this quick weeknight meal.

Nothing Dinner

You will need:

The potatoes growing sprouts in the back of your pantry, grab those.

Is there an onion back there, too? Great! If not, use any other fibrous veggie you have on hand (we’re talking celery, leeks, garlic, etc.) If this fails, add a dash of onion powder and don’t tell anyone. Or use that forgotten bell pepper (just cut off the squishy part and chop up the rest).

Grab the cumin while you’re at it.

The sad and wilting spinach in your fridge. If it’s wrinkled or wilting, perfect. If it’s slimy, gloopy, or smells like rotting fish, there’s no saving it: skip the greens and maybe consider shredding some old carrots to throw in the mix instead.

What to do:

Chop those potatoes (after scrubbing off any sprouts), douse them in olive oil, throw some salt and pepper on them, and bake them at 425 degrees F for thirty to forty-five minutes, until they’ve reached the texture you’re looking for (I go for fork-tender with a nice crispy outer edge).

While these are baking, wash, pick through, and chop your sad greens (or shred your maudlin carrots), chop your onion (or other unremembered allium). In a frying pan over medium heat, heat the olive oil and brown the onions. When the onions are tender, throw the greens on top. Add a dash of salt and a healthy dose of cumin as the leaves are wilting.

And there you go — a dish so simple that, when asked, you truly can say “It’s nothing.” But I promise, on a Tuesday night when your mind is full, this will fill your stomach, too.

That’s all for this week! Thanks, as always for reading. If you know anyone who would like this post (or Food & Fodder in general!) please share!

Thanks,

Juliana

PS —

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I now have a little “storefront” on their site, so if you’re wanting to see or buy some of my favorite books, head on over to my Bookshop site! Right now, my Bookshop lists include my Cookbook Collection, My Work, My Top 10 (always changing), and My New Foray into Scary Books.

You can find a favorite cookbook of mine, “Half-Baked Harvest: Super Simple,” there!

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