BOLOGNESE1

1As prepared and eaten every day by a creature who's been dealing with combined ARFID and executive dysfunction for an overwhelming majority of its life

sauce being prepared in a pan

INGREDIENTS

Note: this recipe is for 500g of meat, but lately I've been cooking 300g instead, which I find is the perfect amount for me for a few bowls at dinner.

2The tomato paste has to be a paste; a purée. Pasta sauce, lightly mashed tomatoes, or polpa will not cut it—the sauce must be uniform.

STEPS

  1. Throw the slab of mincemeat in the pan and let it fry a bit while splitting it into small chunks. It doesn't need to be fully cooked at this step, but it should be relatively brown almost everywhere.
  2. Once the slab of beef becomes a heap of beef, throw all of the spices on it and start stirring. Some of the fat and water in the beef will have pooled by this point, which makes it easier to coat everything in spice.
  3. Add the tomato paste and stir until uniform.
  4. Add water until the mixture is submerged. When it starts bubbling, add some olive oil, turn the heat to low, and let simmer.

The longer the simmer, the richer the taste, however if you're in a rush, adding a tiny bit of water as opposed to covering everything works fine. Consider putting already-cooked pasta in the sauce and letting everything soak together.

The chef's recommendation: if you can find some tahini (the thick stuff you make sauce with, not the sauce itself), especially whole-grain tahini, mix a bit of it into your bowl. Tahini was what I'd douse everything in as a kid to be able to eat it—it makes everything better.

bowl of spaghetti bolognese. around it a ralsei plushie, some books, some cds, and a knife

RAMBLE

Food has always been impossibly hard for me. Ever since I was two, I have not once eaten a fruit or vegetable not in my explicit allowlist, one so exclusive I can enumerate it on one hand. Recent and not-so-recent attempts to try new things have always ended horribly, both physically and mentally, because it seems that my body has a psychosomatic neophobia; one time I tried a banana, quite liked it, and then puked once my brain caught up with what I was trying to do.

Apart from neophobia my eating disorder also manifests as a distinct fear of texture. All food must be tenderized or pulverized, every bite must be exactly as the last. Feeling an unexpected crunch or slimy sensation in my mouth will make me panic and abort everything immediately.

All of these issues, combined with my inability to get out of bed, let alone cook, have resulted in me effectively starving myself unless persuaded otherwise. My first year living alone was characterized by ordering loads of fast-casual food, eating it alongside frozen chicken nuggets and hummus for four days, then simply not eating until the new week rolled around. And yet, whenever I did cook, I felt so happy with myself. I felt accomplished. I felt brave. My stomach felt a lot better, too.

When I started this chapter of my life I promised myself to never go back to the state of constant starving that I subjected myself to before. To get it in my head that cooking is enjoyable, sustainable, and cheap. To understand that food is nonoptional. I'd like to believe I've been doing good on that promise so far.

For years I've been scared of showing this recipe to others, to admit this is what I eat every day, to proudly share it with an audience who will doubtless note, confused, that this is just meat in paste in water. Forget the bolognese vs. ragù discussion, this is neither. This is Soylent. There is no merit to this dish beyond its nutritional value. It is a pragmatic and hyperutilitarian approach—an insult—to food.

But it is what I eat. It is among the only things I know how to cook, and by far the easiest. I have eaten it almost every day for a month a half straight now, since I don't have that thing in my brain that causes things to get old. My childhood wasn't great (or frankly even good), but I can appreciate that for every dinner I had to face in fear, my mother would occasionally cook something she knew I'd be okay with. Something so deformed and devolved from its original form, yet so incredibly personal to the story of my life. I would not be here without it. This is my favourite dish. ⁂