I recently moved from one street in Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn to another street two blocks away.
Parts of me felt sad about leaving behind my childhood friends I’d cohabitated and cooked with for 6 years. They had sat through my early experiments: lots of mustardy, caramelized Brussels sprouts and never-crispy-enough sweet potato fries. Classics eventually emerged: kale, chickpea, and sausage stew; tomatoey lentils; and tie-dye pasta (pesto and vodka sauce, duh). For years, we’d cooked shoulder to shoulder like contestants on Top Chef, borrowing a bouillon cube in a pinch or sharing the same whisk to make salad dressing.