What’s Cooking in Kelli’s Kitchen

We all felt the earthquake this week, and it held its own. A 5.5 that rattled the house and kept going long enough to be taken seriously. It would have registered anywhere, even in places where earthquakes are part of daily life. Around here, though, it’s different. We know the faults are here, but we rarely feel them like that. What stayed with me wasn’t the earthquake itself. It was what it brought back.

I thought about my dad.

As a kid in Southern California, earthquakes were familiar enough that we developed a way of responding to them. When my sister and I were young, an earthquake didn’t send us running for cover. It sent us outside. We’d stand in the front yard and watch the street, looking for that slight rolling movement, and then head to the backyard to check the pool, watching how much water sloshed out and trying to guess how big it had been. It was part curiosity, part ritual. Something that turned an unpredictable moment into something we could observe together.

My dad was always there for that part. Calm, curious, and just a little amused. I remember thinking he could predict earthquakes. As an adult, I suspect I only remember the times he was right. But what stayed with me wasn’t whether he could predict them. It was how he approached them. He paid attention. He didn’t make it bigger than it was, and he didn’t dismiss it either.

When I think about my dad, what stands out isn’t any single story. It’s a pattern. He is present in a way that is engaged, curious, and deliberate all at once. He asks questions. He slows things down just enough to make you think. He has a sense of humor that can be completely ridiculous or so dry you almost miss it, and he’s willing to put real effort into something just because it will make someone else laugh.

The same patience showed up when it came to anything we were trying to figure out. He never took over. He stood beside us instead, asking questions, letting us work through it, trusting us to get there. At the time, it just felt like how things were done. Looking back, I understand how intentional that was.

When I’m working through something now, I find myself doing the same things. Slowing down. Paying attention. Letting things take the time they need.  Cooking, at least the way I’ve learned to do it, feels a lot like that.

When my dad was in charge of making sure Erin and I got fed, there was one meal that showed up more than most. Slumgullion. It wasn’t complicated or precise. It was practical. It was whatever was on hand, brought together with enough care to make it work. You watched it, adjusted it, let it come together. It always turned out a little different, but it was always enough.

It’s his birthday this week. That feels like something worth paying attention to.

A Basic Framework for Slumgullion  ** modify based on what you have on hand **

INGREDIENTS:

2 T olive oil

1 yellow onion, diced

1 green bell pepper, diced

1 # ground beef

2 cl garlic, minced

2 c beef broth

15 oz can tomato sauce

15 oz can crushed tomatoes

1 1/2 cups dry macaroni

1 T Worcestershire sauce

2 t Italian seasoning

1 bay leaf

1 t paprika

1 c cheddar cheese, grated

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

DIRECTIONS:

1. In a large pot over medium-high heat, heat the olive oil.
2. Add onion, bell pepper, and ground beef. Season with salt and pepper, and cook, stirring occasionally, until beef has cooked through.
3. Add garlic and cook 30 seconds more.
4. Stir in broth, tomato sauce, crushed tomatoes, Worcestershire sauce, Italian seasoning, bay leaf, paprika, and season with salt and pepper.
5. Bring mixture to a boil, then reduce heat to low, cover, and let simmer for 15-20 minutes.
6. Stir in macaroni, increase heat to medium-high, and cook until pasta is al dente and sauce thickens, 10-12 minutes, stirring occasionally to keep pasta from sticking.
7. Remove bay leaves and reduce heat to low. Stir in cheese until melted. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
8. Serve and enjoy!