Welcome to Big List, Little List, a monthly newsletter you can miss and nothing would change.
“Big List, Little List” originates from my youth when I obsessively organized every aspect of my life, like any other 12-year-old weird enough to dream of telling jokes on stage. When little me had a meltdown over how life didn’t make sense (all too similar to the meltdowns I still have today), my dad suggested I try his system of making two lists - a ‘big list’ for ongoing life projects and a ‘little list’ of daily to-do’s. I still use this system and believe that, without it, I would not have achieved what I have today. What have I achieved? Not much, but it’s probably not the Lists’ fault.
Big Lists and Little Lists will cover what I’ve learned and am learning about life. Topics will undoubtedly include personal overshares, a touch of unsolicited advice, and possibly even stoop so low they will inspire you to write your own newsletter. That’s what I’m here for - to embarrass my family and encourage you to spam your friends, like the best of us.
Love, Katherine
What’s in this month’s Big List, Little List?
The inaugural Big List: Pregnancy Amnesia (CLICK to read) is what I almost forgot to mention about my pregnancy had I not decided to read my own pregnancy journal. Of course, the caveat: I am not a doctor (as if they can help you) and this is my unique experience with my precious lime turned avocado turned head of lettuce.
This month’s Little List: Married to a Foodie (see below) details a few unforeseen outcomes when I, someone who used to eat to live, married Jimmy, who lives to eat.
Little List: Married to a Foodie
The first rule of marrying a foodie is do not call him a foodie, even though there is clearly no better term than foodie to describe my foodie husband, Jimmy. Jimmy is a skilled amateur cook who lives and breathes food (though he’d never actually inhale a dish worth savouring). Eating food and cooking fulfill him more than anything and, as his roommate in a locked-down world, I have reaped the benefits.
However, there are some things you should know about marrying a foodie, things I’ve learned, mistakes I’ve made. Here’s a taste of them:
Why are you peeing right before dinner?! There were 1439 other minutes when you could have been peeing today. Mise-en-place means everything in its place, including me, ready, at the table for the perfectly timed spaghetti carbonara. Timing is everything. Be ready next time.
Umami this, umami that. I still don’t know what ‘umami’ means or tastes like but I think that’s the point. It’s how they keep us regular folk out.
It’s no longer “where do we want to go?” It’s “what do we want to eat next?”
What is wrong with this dish? Needs more salt. No, wait, needs less salt. Shit. Well, I had a 50-50 chance.
“What’s for dinner?” is a loaded question. Don’t be fooled by the fact that the dinner on the table smells like food and tastes like food. There is only one love language now and it’s caloric. Wednesday’s puttanesca was actually an apology and I accepted. The roast chicken is a good sign, we’re doing well. It’s Friday, and it’s foreplay with frittata. Wait, are those beans? No, you’re right, we need a night to watch Netflix on opposite sides of the couch. We’ll touch each other in two days, unless that’s cassoulet day.
Dinner conversations are conversations about dinner. See point #5. Let the subtext continue. I’d explain more but I’m still deciphering the meaning of an intentionally burnt tostada.
Food poisoning? Blame the salad.
There’s such a thing as “slutty good.” What did you just say? In effect, slutty food gets slut-shamed in a similar way to women who dress or act provocatively might be by idiot misogynists. When you eat slutty food, you may feel slightly regretful but you’re also very satisfied and wonder why you ever paid more for a worse version of the same thing. Slutty good will never earn a Michelin star even though it may taste better. It’s an injustice still to be righted in the food-world.
A food-friend once told Jimmy, “the best kind of dinner guest is one who does the dishes.” Alright. No need to say it twice. Can I be that dinner guest every night? As long as there is enough hand cream, I can do anything.
Ordering food is an art form. Apparently, I was doing it wrong. Order the special. You don’t ‘feel like’ the raw chicken delicacy. It’s not about what you ‘feel like.’ No one feels like raw chicken. It’s about ordering what the chef knows. Trust me. (I did, and I can never unswallow it. But why would I want to? For a moment, right before I gagged, I made my foodie husband so proud.)