What to do when packing the dreaded school lunch threatens to pull apart your marriage? Draw up a contract.

Related: The Blame Game

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When I first became a mother, there was a lot riding on a cup of coffee. As my husband once said of new parenthood, “We no longer get tired. We are tired.” For that first year, I was exhausted all the time. I was breastfeeding two or three times through the night, had little time to exercise (always key for keeping my energy level up), and was dealing with the emotional and physical exhaustion of being a working mother. (What am I doing? Why am I leaving her for eight hours a day? God, when will Monday be here? I need to get out of this house.) That first cup of coffee in the morning was my lifeline. I didn’t care at all about the roast or the blend or if it was fair-trade, organic, Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts. All I cared about was that it was caffeinated. After just a few small sips, the day before me would suddenly become all rainbows and sunshine. (more…)

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I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said this in the past eight years. The words probably give my coworkers the chills (or a clinical case of the eye-rolls) because unless the story I was working on was going to the printer or the magazine I was working for was breaking a big story, like, for instance, how to clean a cutting board (God I love Real Simple) I was on my beloved 5:39 train (or, latest, my 5:59) that rolled me into my suburban station at exactly 6:05 every single night. Which meant that I was weaving up the hilly streets of my neighborhood by 6:09, walking in the front door at 6:15 (with two searching little faces looking out the brightly lit front window unable to see me approaching in the dark) and in my kitchen prepping dinner 15 minutes later.

I think people at work came to know two Jennys: the relatively harmless Jenny who was around most of the day, and the post-4:30 Jenny, who made militaristic, monosyllabic decisions, who barely looked up from her work to even smile if someone decided to come and gossip (Come on! You couldn’t have told me about Katie in Legal at 3:00?), and the one who would start sweating if a meeting was called at any point between 4:30 and 5:21, the exact minute when she’d begin her sprint to Grand Central Station. (Only sometimes looking back to see coworkers, and once even a boss, glancing at their watches as she’d fly down whatever taupe-colored hall she called her office.) (more…)

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I’m sure you knew this one was coming — you’ve only seen the confetti-like pearly grains (that are technically not grains, but it’s just so weird to say confetti-like pearly chenopods) accessorizing my dinner plates for the last three months. All I have to say is this: Once you’ve tried quinoa, you will forever question your couscous and rice habit — well, I guess I can’t speak for you, but those were the two default starches on the dinner plate that I was raised with. Quinoa is a complete protein (which is why it’s so popular among vegetarians), it’s gluten-free (ditto parents of children with wheat allergies) and so freaking delicious (ditto people who like freaking delicious things).

You know that rule about how you have to put something new in front of the kids 25 times before they try it? Well, if that is indeed the case, we are about a month overdue for the under-four-feeters to swallow a solid forkful of quinoa. I’m not exaggerating — they’ve seen us spoon up a side of it pretty much every other night all spring long.

My friend and Time for Dinner co-author Pilar makes a vat of quinoa on Sunday so all week long it’s ready to be mixed into salads or heaped on her sons’ plates. (Supermom alert.) The few times I’ve followed her lead, this has been a boon for quick lunches, when I can toss in cooked vegetables (asparagus, broccoli), nuts (walnuts, slivered almonds), cheese (feta, goat) and dried fruit (cherries, pomegranates) with a basic vinaigrette.

But the dish above, Quinoa with Spinach and a Fried Egg, is the dish that really kicked my love for quinoa to Friday Night Lights-levels of obsession. It took less time to make this meal (that I would have paid $20 for in a restaurant) than to heat up a frozen Trader Joe’s pizza. And yes, it’s true that this comparison falls slightly flat since my kids will actually eat a Trader Joe’s pizza. But you might have better luck than me. (more…)

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The recipe for these sweet, braised meatballs is written on a notecard with company letterhead from Andy’s first job. It’s written in shorthand — I can picture him in his beige, cookie-cutter cubicle fifteen years ago, scribbling down the instructions as his mom dictated the exact amounts of peppers, onions, and beef over the phone… her standing in his childhood kitchen 250 miles away. He claims to have eaten porcupines — so named for the spikey effect of cooked rice inside them — no less than once every three weeks from 1977 to 1989. And now in our 21st-century home, we seem to be continuing the streak. Though we usually make them with ground turkey instead of ground beef. And afterwards, the kids get to watch a little youtube video on the laptop instead heading down to the rec room for an Asteroid marathon on the Atari. But no matter what decade, it’s an awesome Sunday dinner.

Porcupine prep

Porcupine Meatballs, ca. 1977
Unless you are under four feet tall, you will probably need something acidic (a green salad with vinegary dressing) to cut the sweetness of the braising liquid.

1 pound ground beef (or turkey)
1/2 cup rice
1 tablespoon chopped onion
2 tablespoons chopped green peppers
1 teaspoon salt
1 clove garlic
2 cups tomato juice
4 cloves
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon Worcestershire

Combine uncooked beef, rice, onion, green peppers, salt, and garlic in a large bowl. Shape into small balls, about 1-inch wide.

Whisk together remaining ingredients in a deep skillet and bring to a simmer. Drop in meatballs and cover tightly. Simmer for 30 minutes, flipping over about half way through.

Remove cloves before serving.

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