TWO ENTREES. TWO DESSERTS. FOUR STORIES.

Here are some favorite posts from my Food52 column Cooking What I Want. I was thinking these recipes might work well for a crowd (if you happen to have one in your house this week). Click on the dish name or the food photo for a recipe.

And if you feel like it, let me know in the comments below what kinds of recipes you'd like me to develop this winter. I tend to make the same things over and over again so I would love some inspiration.

Happy winter solstice. And here's to a hella peaceful new year.

xoxo Phyllis

POMEGRANATE FLANK STEAK

Dash. Look outside. We fell back.

What?

It's 5:20 in the evening. But what time does it look like?

6:20.

And in the spring when it's 5:20 what will it look like?

4:20.

Here's the best part, Dash. On Monday morning, 7 AM will feel like 8 AM. Total. Score. But I'm bummed the weekend is over.

Me too. It was great because my daddy came home. 

That was my favorite part too. 

We carved pumpkins, we had pancakes, we had Halloween. There was candy. You ate my strawberry Starbursts. And then you made shakshuka.

I did?

No. Wait. Mom. You made baba ganoush. I get all these new words mixed up. And then we had plank steak.

Did you like the plank steak?

It was delicious. Sweet but sour. Juicy. It was awesome.

Dash, do you think that dinner tasted better because daddy was here?

Maybe a little. Because I don't like it when it's just three. I like the whole four.

Yes, my love. It was a perfect weekend.

I don’t tell him that nothing makes me happier than cooking for his daddy.

I don’t tell him his daddy doesn’t like flank steak, that I forgot, that I’ve lost touch.

I don’t tell him about the kiss his daddy gave me when he got home on Friday night, the one behind the bedroom door, against the Transformers poster, amongst the Legos and stuffed cats, right before the first trick or treaters arrived.

I don’t tell him how sometimes I hide in the kitchen and cook so that I don’t have to be fully present as a wife or a parent.

I don’t tell him how this was a record, how his daddy and I made it 36 hours before our first fight.

I don’t tell him about the fight, the same one we always have, the you are so controlling, followed by the you have no patience, ending, as always, with me sobbing on the kitchen floor.

I don’t tell him how blissed out it made me to roll over on Saturday morning to find a warm chest for my head, to interlace fingers with fingers and toes with toes, to feel my entire being enveloped by the steady rhythm of someone else’s breath.

I don’t tell him that it’s possible to love someone just as much now as you did 25 years ago.

I don’t tell him that I ate all of his Snickers bars for lunch.

I tell him only one thing.

Dash. It’s flank. Not plank.

SPICED LAMB PIE

When I was 10 years old, I wanted world peace, no capital punishment, and an endless supply of Fun Dip Sticks.

At 44, I want my kids’ homework done, the table set without triple requests, and for all of us to sit down to dinner at the same time with napkins in our laps.

I want my son to take a bath at least once a week.

I want a slow, luxurious husband-kiss delivered to the side of my neck while I chop herbs.

I want my fall filled with warm and cinnamony lamb pies.

I want to sit at the kitchen table—red wine in hand, breathing deeply, staring at the wall, thinking about nothing—while my husband does the dishes.

I want to stop yelling at my children.

I want all of the laundry folded and tucked away, the bills organized and paid, the leak under the kitchen sink fixed.

I want us all to feel safe.

Last Wednesday, at 6 PM, I try for these dreams.

But there are some issues.

My husband is out of town.

The red wine gives me a headache. I google perimenopause and red wine. The news is horrifying.

So I become a yelling machine.

No way. Not on a school night. No. I don’t care how nicely you ask. No screentime. No. No! Nooooooooooo.

No. Please, Dash. Don’t sharpen your pencil with a chef knife!

Pick up your lunchbox your Legos your jacket your dirty socks your homework your cheddar bunnies!!!

I turn away from it all to stir a pungent paste of garlic, anchovies, tomato paste, and spices into the ground lamb. My world fills with cinnamon, paprika, cumin. The juices reduce down and thicken. I turn off the heat and reach for the dough.

I hear a jumble of voices: teacher, mama, recipe writer. Don’t move your body, move the dough. Don’t overhandle it. Add flour. Move quickly. Look at the beautiful marbling of butter. Isn’t dough amazing? Want to make a honey pie with the scraps?

I pour the filling into the pie shell, slide as much cheese as possible underneath the top crust, and bust out a scrappy crimp.

I am no longer yelling.

I snap out of my pie trance and remember that kids need to be fed at a reasonable hour on a school night.

And 8:30 PM isn’t reasonable. 

I pull out the frozen pizza. 

BROWN BUTTER BLONDIES

Extra chocolate chips. Hella brown sugar. An overflowing tablespoon of vanilla extract.

For my daughter after her pull-ups. For my son as he tries to conjugate the verb dormir. For my husband as he drives away from our Thanksgiving weekend, away from our unit of four, away from our fully-loaded Christmas tree. For my mother because there is nothing better than feeding your mother.

Brown butter with toasted walnuts. No chocolate chips. Less brown sugar.

For me, right before bed, drifting off to sleep with butterscotch on my tongue after defiantly ignoring my toothbrush because I'm 44 and I can do what I want. 

Chocolate stirred in while the dough is still warm. Crinkly on the top, marbley brownie on the inside. 

For my grandmother, accompanied by lukewarm Lipton tea. Eaten with my hand resting on her impossibly fragile arm. In her hospital bed. After she says "I don't like blondies." After I say to the nurse, "did you know that I wanted to be my grandmother when I was little?" Before she actually bites in and smiles and reaches for more.

A heaping teaspoon of salt. Just enough chocolate chips so the butterscotch flavor doesn’t have to compete. Balanced. Nuts optional. 

Brought over by my neighbor: on my birthday or my son’s or just because, at the end of many rough days, after yet another miscarriage. Eaten while sobbing, letting the buttery chocolate squares fill me back up again. Shared with no one.

Versions of all four batches rest in my freezer, cubed and Ziplocked. Up for grabs. For the forgotten second-grade-holiday-party-potluck. For late nights with "The Newsroom" and red wine. For anyone who stops by. For Marianne, Simon, Margi, Sarah, Amy, Yalda, Laurel, Jen, Anya, Anna, my brother, my mom, my dad. I promised you all some blondies. Come over. Let me feed you.  

CARAMEL NUT TART WITH CHOCOLATE

I sit alone in the car, listening to reports about the upcoming hellastorm, a trail of broken windows from the previous night’s protests, how everyone is bringing booty back. I try to find my morning.   

Gather every lonely nut you can find in your pantry, fridge, freezer.

I squeeze my eyes shut, smack my cheeks, and try to kickstart my brain. I don’t know how I jumped out of bed this morning, how I got these clothes on my body, how I showed up in the kitchen. I have no memory of nuzzling one child and then the other awake. 

Roll out your tart dough. Find your favorite square pan.

My arms must have prepared three breakfasts, two lunches, one cup of very strong coffee. My voice must have guided with variations of take a deep breath, I will help you find your homework, yes your socks are clean and in the bin, no you can't get Snapchat.

Think about all of the tarts that have passed through this pan, this kitchen. Testing, re-testing, learning to let go of being perfect. 

My head drops to the steering wheel. I am feeling the side effects: the slow decline of my sacrum, my teeth, my brain. I need to look up. I need to break some rules. 

Caramelize the sugar. Stir in the cream. Watch it rise up like a volcano.

I re-enter the kitchen and the morning floods back. Every last word, struggle, sprint, geometry problem, glass of spilled milk. I hear myself say: first, make the bed. I see myself tucking, folding, scrubbing.

Add some salt. A bit more salt. Some vanilla. A bit more vanilla. 

I pick my kids up from school. As the helicopters start in for the fifth night in a row, I see my son cover his ears from the noise. I feel myself start a stumbling rant: Things must change and we can help and we must not just let things be and we are all equal and there is so much history filled with violence and oppression and we must march and chant and fight. I want to be the right parent. The clear parent. 

Pour the caramel-drenched walnuts, pine nuts, pecans, almonds into the raw pastry shell. Fuck par-baking. 

Dash, sometimes people have to make some noise. 

Stare at your pretty tart. Melt bitter chocolate. Get a spoon. Drizzle. Mess it up.