Love Train

Shortly before the arrival of our daughter, a friend asked if they could arrange a meal train for us. As a New Yorker emeritus and a first time parent, I had no idea what that meant. I was only familiar with people bringing you food at the end of life, not the beginning. And in a city where thousands of restaurants are waiting patiently to deliver your next meal, the idea of cooking for someone had always felt intimate, reserved for lovers or loneliness - or that one rich friend who had a real kitchen in their apartment instead of just a microwave.

It turns out the meal train offer was part of an important lesson for me in becoming a Texan. I learned when you have a baby here, everyone has a baby. It starts the moment you refuse your first Ranch Water. Texts from friends of friends who heard your name once in conversation offering to help host your baby shower. Porch gifts lovingly monogrammed moments after a name is announced. Hand-me-downs curated by age and season. And endless, emphatic volunteers to watch your baby when she arrives, should you need support - or to just go get your nails done.

And then there’s the meal train. What in many cities may render itself as an Uber Eats gift card looks more like a Top Chef challenge in West Texas. People here take their food, and babies, seriously, meaning the meal train in Midland isn’t just a gift - it’s an art.

You’ll start with salad (something that will always taste better when someone else prepares it). It will be a darn good salad. Something with herbs and layers of colorful radish or vinegary green beans. It will have crunch like pine nuts or croutons. Ingredients will be separated for integrity or to satisfy your preferences. Dressing will be in its own mason jar - the jar is for you to keep.

You’ll then dine on chicken thighs braised with olives and pancetta or cast iron roast chickens soaking in butter and onions. Greek chicken, Marry Me chicken. Chicken breasts and chicken soups. It’s Texas, so there will also be beef - shredded in tacos or ground up in meatballs. Short rib tenderly folded into mushroom risotto. Whole pot roasts, fully accessorized. A stack of homemade Crunchwrap Supremes because someone heard you say once (or twice) that you love Taco Bell.

You sense people prepare their signature dishes, not because their arsenal is limited, but because they want to give you their best. You know this when they casually throw in warm banana bread or a suite of homemade dips, as if these were afterthoughts that didn’t require their own litany of ingredients and dirty dishes.

Of course, not everyone cooks, either by choice or by way of baseball games and ballet recitals that crop up for over-committed parent. People still make sure you are well fed. They’ll order your favorites. They’ll send you their favorites. Bagels and pizzas from New York still sit patiently in our freezer. No one ever seems to forget or bail out. A friend of mine was t-boned in her suburban the day she was signed up to bring us dinner. She was okay, but the car wasn’t. Dinner still got to our house.

Not long ago, as our son turned two months, we received our final meal delivery. At the same time it hit our front doorstep, I was across town dropping off dinner to friends who had just welcomed their own baby boy. I brought them my favorite meal - trottole with homemade pesto, a tray of caprese, and a loaf of garlic bread. I drove away thinking about those first day feelings - love, anxiety, delirium, exhaustion, wonder, fear. What a comfort there was in that community showing up for you, just to get you fed. Just to say, “we’re here.” What wonderful friends.

And what delicious food.