On Time

And the things that soften inside it...

I rarely cook for private dinners that I’m not hosting. My evenings belong to bedtime routines now - the bath, the books, the long negotiations with a small person who believes sleep is optional and unnecessary.

But today is different. Today, I’m making short ribs for people I love, and short ribs take four hours. Minimum. You can’t rush a braise. That’s the whole point of a braise.

Here’s what I know about myself: I am not someone who sits still.

Give me a free afternoon and I will reorganize a closet, clean out a drawer, find a new project, create something out of nothing, try a new recipe - anything. I treat open time like a problem to solve.

Unscheduled hours make me twitchy. I want to use them - to emerge on the other side with something to show for myself. I can barely watch a movie without saying “pause it for a second” with something to chit chat about which drives my sweet husband bananas.

But cooking has always been different. In the kitchen, I slow down on purpose. I choose recipes that take all day. I want the dough to rise twice. I want the onions to go translucent slowly, then golden, then jammy. I want the meat to braise until it falls apart at the suggestion of a fork.

The longer it takes, the more you know I love you. That’s always been my language.

Our son took a long time to get here.

I don’t mean the pregnancy, though that felt long too. I mean before. The months that stretched into years. The waiting that became its own season, unmarked on any calendar.

And now that he’s here, everyone wants to talk about how fast it goes. Oh, he’s crawling? Just wait. He’ll be off to college before you know it.

I know they mean well. But it makes me want to grab them by the shoulders. Do you know how long we waited? Do you know that I’m not ready to think about him leaving?

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He still doesn’t sleep through the night. Not consistently. We tried sleep training. I lasted five minutes before I went to him.

So instead, we do the slow way. The long way. I hold him at 3am and walk the dark house and wait for his breathing to change. Sometimes it takes five minutes. Sometimes forty-five. In the moment, it’s hard. My back aches. My eyes sting. I think about all the things I’m not doing - the sleep I’m not getting, the hours I’m losing.

But I know that when I’m very old, when I’m making my exit from this spinning rock, these will be the moments I want to go back to. Not the projects accomplished or the closets organized. The minutes I spent in the dark with his breath on my chest, waiting for him to soften into sleep.

That’s the thing about time. You can’t feel its value while you’re inside it.

A braise works because of what happens in the waiting. Collagen breaks down. Connective tissue softens. The tough thing becomes tender. The flavors deepen and marry and become more than the sum of their parts. None of this can be rushed. Heat alone won’t do it. You need heat and time.

I think about this when I’m up with him at night (not braising meat, but the softening). These are the hours no one sees, the slow work that makes the thing what it is.

Today, I’m spending all day on a meal that will be eaten in thirty minutes. I’ll brown the meat, build the braising liquid, slide the pot into the oven and wait. I’ll check it once an hour, not because it needs checking, but because I want to open the lid and smell what’s happening in there. Experience the transformation.

And when I set it on the table for the people I love, they’ll taste it. Not the ingredients - but the time. The hours. The choosing to stay.

It’s my way of saying: I was here in the long, quiet minutes, choosing you in the simplest way I know how. Depth comes from patience. Softness comes from staying. And the best things take time to become what they’re meant to be.

Tonight on the Private Dinner Menu:

Fig & Cambazola Toasts

Crisp Endive, Radicchio & Apple Salad
with manchego, candied walnuts and a maple–sherry vinaigrette

Braised Beef Short Ribs
with pumpkin, maple, and smoked paprika polenta, charred cabbage
wedge, and chili–orange breadcrumbs

Dark Chocolate Espresso Mousse
and flaky sea salt

Below are my two favorite “I love you, this took all day” recipes.