The Gift of Being Fed [and a recipe for Pasta with Ground Turkey, Broccoli, and White Wine]

“Are we allowed to do that?” my husband, Colson, asks me.

We’re in the car, driving back from, I can’t remember where, when I get a text message from a woman at my church who coordinates meals for people when they’ve had a baby, surgery, or other hardship. Would you like us to set up a Meal Train for you while your husband recovers from surgery?

“Why would we not be allowed?” I ask, setting the phone on my lap. I know what he means, though. Is our situation “hard enough” to warrant people cooking our dinners? I hold off responding to the text.

We’ve been the proud recipients of casseroles and pot roasts before. After each of my pregnancies, we received every meal with gratitude, not hesitating to grab a fork and thank the good Lord for the hands that prepared this dinner so we didn’t have to. When my mom passed away, my dad’s church provided more food than he could have possibly eaten. He received so many meals that we eventually had to turn some away because his deep freezer didn’t have an ounce of space left.

Now, even though Colson needs surgery (on his Achilles, from a basketball injury, cue the are-we-really-that-old? jokes), we’re more or less fine. It’s annoying and inconvenient and even a little scary, but not, like, scary, scary. His heart, lungs, and all the other life sustaining organs are beating and breathing on schedule. Besides, I’m healthy, the kids are healthy, and he’s not totally bedridden. We’re functional enough. Others have it so much worse. We’re fine. It’s fine. We’ll be fine.

I’m about to reply, “Thank you, but I think we’re okay!!” I pause before hitting send, deciding two exclamation points may be a bit much. After all, I’m saying no so we can avoid being a bit much. I dwell for far too long on my punctuation choice and start to edit my message so it conveys enthusiastic gratitude without sounding like I’m yelling. And then, during a momentary lapse of pride, I opt to delete everything I’ve written and start over.

“That’d actually be really helpful to have even a handful of meals after Colson’s surgery,” I type into my phone. I feel self-conscious saying yes. I feel like a burden, like I don’t deserve people’s kindness, like our situation doesn’t warrant inconveniencing others. But also? My husband can’t walk. My one-year-old definitely can walk, and he needs to be followed constantly or he’ll dig out the dirt from my houseplants or climb on the kitchen table or try eating dog food. I have to figure out how to change the brake lights on our car (thank you, YouTube). Bags of mulch sit in the garage, waiting to be spread in the garden. And much to my chagrin, the garbage won’t magically walk itself to the curb.

When I think about caring for my husband, our four children, our home, even my dog right now, the weight of overwhelm presses down on my shoulders. Not having to cook dinner? That’d be really nice.

A few days later, Colson’s in bed, laptop in hand and leg elevated on a pillow. I refill his water bottle, stock the mini-fridge we put in our bedroom with yogurt and seltzer. He says thank you, noticing my frantic pace and stern face, and while I appreciate the gratitude, my countenance reveals how much I’m struggling to keep up with our life.

I head back downstairs to wash a few dishes, bemoaning the fact that our dishwasher is still broken, then pick up the spices the toddler has managed to take out of the pantry. As I put the paprika back, I run over toward the dog bowl to grab that same toddler I hear splashing in our pup’s water bowl.

“What’s for dinner?” my oldest son asks. Then, of course not hearing her brother’s question, my daughter makes the same inquiry no less than three minutes later, followed by the same question, again, from the five-year-old another few minutes after that. Each time I respond (with a little more annoyance at each repetition), “Friends from church are bringing us food tonight. Tacos I think. Isn’t that kind of them?”

I’ve always wanted to teach my kids that feeding people is a tangible way we can love others, a way we can be generous and help and simply say to those in a tough spot, “I see you.” They’ve watched me prepare food for friends and neighbors over the years. They’ve hopped in the car when I’ve delivered chicken soup or sausage and bean stew, some of those meals going to the same people who signed up to feed us this week.

Now, they watch us receive. They don’t remember receiving meals when they were babies, of course, but they’re at an age where they notice and ask questions. “Why are they bringing us food? Who made this? What’s in the bag on the counter?”

Each night before food gets dropped off, they look a little nervous about what might show up at the front door, if it’s food familiar to them, if they’ll like it. We give a quick lecture on gratitude and reassure them our friends know how to make food kids will like. I also remind them ever so gently (read: firmly) that even if they don’t like it, Mom’s not cooking.

The first evening of our Meal Train, tacos arrive at our front door, carried in by the hands of the sweetest woman you’ll ever meet. She steps into our home, over the plastic dinosaur, and around a few mismatched dirty socks. I apologize for the mess and the dog barking in the basement. She assures me not to worry, and I believe her. She brings ice cream bars for the kids, extra taco toppings, and one of those smiles that melts any cynicism about the world that’s been crystallized in your heart for who knows how long, reminding you that people can be truly good and kind.

I want my kids to be independent and confident. I want them to work hard and figure things out on their own and problem solve. But sometimes, I idolize self-sufficiency and forget the beauty of receiving. What’s more important for me to teach my kids in this instance: that we can do life by ourselves? Or that it’s okay to receive help? Do I want them to remember Mom barking orders from the kitchen, raging like a hurricane after Dad’s surgery? Or see how that same hurricane could calm down for a few moments at the table together because someone else provided the food?

I’m not good at receiving. It’s humbling. I wonder if someone looks at our life and thinks, “Why do they need a meal? They’re fine.” But then, I consider the five minute conversations with friends as they drop off food, the leftovers for lunch the next day, the kindness and smiles from people who show up without analyzing if we’re worthy enough or if our situation is bad enough. They just jump into our lives and offer hands full of hot food. Why do I keep resisting this generosity?

Each night, the older three kids exhale when they see what’s been dropped off. Sloppy joes one day, pulled pork on Wednesday, and a few days later, pasta. We chuckle at how quickly the one-year-old stuffs noodles into his mouth. He grins with chipmunk cheeks, soaking in the sudden attention.

I look around our dinner table, and I’m struck by the reminder that receiving can teach as much as giving. Every bite reminds me that accepting help was the right decision. And because of others, I can honestly say that yes, we really are doing fine.

Pasta with Ground Turkey, Broccoli, and White Wine

Yields 6-8 servings
Total Time: 35-40 minutes | Active Time: 30-35 minutes

This pasta recipe has been on the regular rotation in our house lately. I tend to have the majority of these ingredients on hand most of the time, but the recipe can also be easily adjusted as needed.*

1 pound of pasta noodles of your choice (I like to use shells, penne, or bowtie)
2 Tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 pound ground turkey
1 pound broccoli florets, cut into bite-sized pieces
½ to 1 cup dry white wine, plus more to taste**
Juice of 1 lemon, plus more to taste
1 cup shredded Parmesan cheese, plus more for topping
1 ½ teaspoons kosher salt, divided, plus more to taste
Freshly ground black pepper
Red pepper flakes (optional)

Cook the pasta about one minute shy of what the package directions indicate, reserving about 2 cups of pasta water when you drain it.

While the pasta cooks, in a large pot or Dutch oven, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onion and cook for 3-4 minutes until softened. Add the garlic and cook for one more minute. Add the ground turkey and about a half teaspoon of kosher salt. Cook, stirring frequently, until the turkey is almost cooked through, about 5 minutes. (Add a splash of wine, broth, or oil if the bottom of the pan gets too dry.)

Add the broccoli, ½ cup of white wine, and lemon juice, along with another teaspoon of kosher salt. Cover and cook for 5-7 minutes until the broccoli is tender but not over cooked.

Add the cooked and drained pasta to the turkey and broccoli mixture, along with the Parmesan cheese and about a half cup of pasta water. Cook for another 3-4 minutes, stirring often, until the ingredients are fully incorporated, pasta is fully cooked, and cheese is melted. Add in a splash more of wine (I added another ½ cup) and as much pasta water as you need to get the consistently you desire. (I ended up using almost the full 2 cups of reserved pasta water.)

Season with more salt, lemon, and black pepper to taste. (Basically, the instructions at this point are “add a splash here, a sprinkle there, etc., until you like how it tastes.”) Top with additional cheese and red pepper flakes, if you feel like it.

Grab a fork and dig in—or pack up and bring to someone else who could use a meal!

Notes:

*Have fresh spinach to use up? Throw it in the pot. Want to add some color? Add in a pint or two of cherry tomatoes when you saute the onions. Feel free to mix and match the veggies, adjusting the cook time as necessary.

**If you don’t have or don’t want to use white wine, sub in chicken broth and a splash more lemon juice if you’d like.

Words and photo by Sarah J. Hauser.

Sarah J. Hauser is a writer and speaker living in the Chicago suburbs with her husband and four kids. Through theology, stories, and the occasional recipe, she helps others find nourishment for their soul. She loves cooking but rarely follows a recipe exactly, and you can almost always find her with a cup of coffee in hand. She is the author of All Who Are Weary: Finding True Rest by Letting Go of the Burdens You Were Never Meant to Carry. Check out her monthly newsletter or find her on Instagram.

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