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When I’m done with staring at this computer screen at the end of each work day — or, on better days, when I’m back from traipsing around wine country — my next stop is usually the kitchen to plot that night’s dinner.
Coming up with a menu based on what we have on hand is the most creative part of the process, and still probably my favorite step, at least next to those first bites. But as I’ve settled into fatherhood — with making dinner as one of the few regular routines in an often-erratic existence — I’ve come to appreciate seemingly menial parts of cooking that once felt more mandatory than meaningful.