Back when I was convinced that Scarlett would be an only child, and before I had written a food-centric memoir, I decided I would write something similar a la A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg (stories with a recipe attached) and I would title it Sundays With Scarlett.
5 years later, Bobby Flay will actually publish something very similar, Sundays with Sophie, an homage to his own child in the same vein. I digress, but I am also not interested in writing a cookbook, at least not now. I’ve gotten better at, and learned the repercussions of, Never Say Never. But definitely not now. I like being able to create and share recipes with y’all here, knowing that it is a laidback approach, recipes are tested in my kitchen solely, and haven’t been beaten into perfectionism through test kitchen etc
The irony of me not wanting this despite being a recovering perfectionist is not lost on me, although perhaps this means I am on the mend.
xxx
I became pregnant in the summer of 2019, tragically ill and in pain, and eventually miscarrying at 12 weeks. Scarlett would talk about the baby girl I was pregnant with, or was, and if that baby did happen to be born AFAB, I would’ve named her Sunday Jane.
I still think about those months with Scarlett, with her toddler curls and a much lesser but still vocal vocabulary. How I was suprised by her ability to understand such things; grief and processing. How she looked at me with concern. Just how she knew. She patted my belly, my face when I cried, my back when I barely moved from bed. That kid has been a nurturer in her own way since the very beginning. At any rate, the idea of publishing something titled Sundays with Scarlett feels even softer yet, and who knows, maybe there’s still something there for the future, even if Bobby Flay fucked it a bit for me.
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