When I was growing up, every Friday night we had dinner at my grandmother’s house. Usually it was boiled chicken, preceded by chicken soup. Grandma was probably in a cooking rut.
Now our house is the venue for that weekly dinner. Although boiled chicken is never on the menu, I’m the one in the cooking rut. There are only certain dishes I can serve that we all will eat—vegetarian lasagna, stuffed tortillas, blintzes--and I’m tired of them.
At times like this one of my great joys in life is dinner at somebody else’s house.
