Notes from a Dining Hall Dreamer

I don’t cook anymore. These days, I eat in the college dining hall—three meals a day, plenty of warm food and good company, but not a lot of variety. It works. It keeps the wheels turning.

But every so often, I remember the kitchen version of myself. The one with spice-stained cookbooks and half-used jars of tahini. The one who used to cook for his wife, just to see her eyes widen when she sat down to eat.

Back then, I’d spend part of each week hunting down a new recipe. Something unexpected. Something I hadn’t tried before. I wasn’t chasing perfection. I was chasing surprise.

Every now and then, my wife would take a bite, pause, and say, “It’s like going to a restaurant.” Not because it was exceptional, but because it was never the same. There was always something new. She never knew what would arrive at the table next. That was the magic.

But then time would tighten. Work deadlines. Early meetings. Dinners became less like a premiere and more like reruns. Groundhog Day with pasta.

Eventually I stopped looking for recipes. Stopped experimenting. Cooking became something I used to do.

And then I discovered Ottolenghi. Long after I’d stopped cooking. (I know I am late to the party, but when you eat in a dining hall every day you do get a little detached from your surroundings.)

The flavours—Middle Eastern, bold, bright. The vegetables—finally the main act. I read Ottolenghi Simple the way some people read travel guides: not because I’m going anywhere soon, but because I like imagining what it might feel like to be there.

Braised eggs with leek and za’atar.
Harissa and Manchego omelettes.
Courgette and ciabatta frittata.

I read those names and feel something stir. Not hunger, exactly. More like hope.

Hope that one day, time will stretch again. Not wide open, just enough. Enough for one meal made slowly. Enough to try something new without falling into the loop of leftovers and fatigue.

I don’t need it to be a restaurant again. I just want it to be a little adventure. One dish. One evening. One remembered joy. And if that day comes, I’ll start with something simple. I’ll text my wife—Come home hungry.