Tell me what you eat, I might cook for you.

I love to eat, in case that wasn’t already eminently clear from how much I write about what I eat while traveling around the country ostensibly to watch baseball but really just to eat in new and exciting places. It’s a touch ironic that I have this particular passion given how little food I can actually consume; there are many reasons I dislike chain restaurants but somewhere on that list is the fact that their idea of an entrée is my idea of how to feed a family of five. There’s only so much I can fit in my gut, and unfortunately I do not have a second stomach for dessert, although sometimes I pretend I do and end up filled with shame and regret an hour or so afterwards.

I saw more draft prospects than ever this year, helped by the consolidation of college talent in the SEC and ACC, and so I ate out a lot between mid-February and the first week of May. It reached a point where I was picking meal spots based on whether there were vegetables involved somewhere on the menu; frequent travelers know it’s a lot easier to load up on protein and carbs and a lot harder to mix in a salad, and while I confess to eating at Panera from time to time, I don’t love it.

I missed the lighter eating of home-cooked meals, but beyond that, I just missed the act – and art – of cooking, even beyond its purpose of keeping me and whichever family members are here that night alive. I know plenty of people who love to cook, and of course many who hate it. I don’t judge anyone for their passions – okay, there are grown men who like My Little Pony, and I do in fact judge them – but I admit I look at people who despise cooking the way I look at people who just don’t enjoy music, like, I’m sorry you’re missing out on this thing that I think brings so much joy and satisfaction. It doesn’t matter if I’m only cooking for myself, cooking for the family, cooking for company, whoever. The act of turning raw ingredients into a finished dish, of creating and building flavors, of trying new techniques or ingredients or combinations, all of it just floods my system with dopamine. It’s better than watching a great movie, and I like movies quite a bit. I know a decent amount about the science of food and cooking – I even own this canonical and very heavy work on the subject – but it still looks and feels like magic when I watch something sear in a pan, or I put a pale, unappealing chicken in the oven and it comes out golden brown and crispy and salty, and the sheet pan is full of liquid gold to make a sauce, maybe with a dash of soy sauce or miso for umami and some butter to emulsify it. But I digress.

Since I often eat alone on the road, I occasionally get lucky and sit at the chef’s counter, seats that overlook part of the kitchen, and I get the vicarious thrill of watching people cook with the big-boy equipment. Sometimes they’re chatty, and if it’s clear I’m not bothering them, I get to ask questions, or just marvel at the tools and ingredients I rarely get to see. I love those experiences, although in the end, it just makes me miss my kitchen even more.

Now I’m home for most of the summer, with no flights on my calendar for the first time since January, and I have been trying to get my swing back. An offseason of no cooking meant that my timing was off, so I’ve been a little slow to get back to my usual rhythm. I’m giving 110% though, taking it one day at a time. The hits will come.

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I did not make this, but I did eat it, at Robert’s Pizza & Dough Co. in Chicago.

My first Big Board, ranking the top 100 prospects for this year’s draft, is now up for subscribers to The Athletic; I held a Q&A on Thursday to take questions about it and other prospects. I also posted a minor-league scouting notebook from my recent looks at Andrew Painter, George Lombard, Jr., Jhostynxon “The Password” Garcia, Mikey Romero, and others.

Over at Paste, I reviewed the game Diatoms, which has some incredible art and high-quality components, and almost plays too quickly – I wanted a few more rounds to keep building patterns.

On the dish, I reviewed the great small-box card game TEN; the books Mice 1961, The Vegetarian, and Congo, Inc.; and everywhere I ate in Chicago earlier this month. I’ve got a few more books to write up but had to drop everything to get the top 100 done. It’s always a slog and I already know of one player who belonged on it and isn’t there. He’ll be on the update.

Stay safe, and don’t comply in advance.

Keith