The four dinners I can cook holding a baby

One hand, twelve minutes, no recipe card. These four have carried us through a full year of evenings and none of them require a second pan.

The first is a tray of whatever is in the drawer, olive oil, salt, hot oven, done. The second is eggs, properly. The third is a pot of beans that started in the morning and forgave me all day. The fourth is toast, and I refuse to apologise for it.

The trick was never the recipes. It was accepting that dinner does not have to be a performance to count.