A friend invited us to her house for brunch on Sunday. It was a simple affair—just the two of us, catching up—at which she served Greek yogurt mixed with chopped candied grapefruit rind and a squeeze of tangelo juice followed by a savory quinoa dish with tomatillo salsa, grated Jack cheese, and runny fried eggs. Both courses were presented in bowls (the first small, the second colossal), with large spoons fit to take on as big or small a bite as the guest chose. It was delightful.
And it got us thinking about our late-morning meals of the past two months; they’ve all been taken in bowls. As have our suppers.
In late winter, when S.A.D. has taken over and energy runs low, we can only really muster the strength to use (and clean) two pieces of tableware. The bowl and spoon become the utensil equivalent of a jumpsuit, convenience-wise. Plus, you can scrape around the inside of the bowl’s walls, picking up every last bit of whatever steaming meal you’ve ladled into it. And a bowl fits perfectly into your lap when you’re sitting Indian-style on the couch, in Hanes sweatpants and wool socks. We want to eat basically everything out of a bowl right now. Like: