Quarantine Diary Day 317: Tiny Victories

So what have I been doing while sheltering in place for the last eleven months? Like a lot of people, I’ve been cooking more. I don’t want to overstate my efforts. I did not undertake any ambitious projects. I did not, could not, would absolutely never commit to cooking a certain number of meals per week. I did not, could not, will absolutely never try a new diet or meal plan. I did not resolve to save money. I did not decide to work my way through a cookbook of note. I have no interest in being a more helpful partner, a more nurturing mom, more well-rounded person, or a healthier eater. I just had a little more time and energy after work and decided to spend some of more of it in the company of one of my favorite things: food.

I don’t have much to show in the way of results. At best, I have become a slightly less mediocre cook. Truly, the list of things I have not accomplished in the kitchen in the last year is neverending, but here is an abbreviated to give you the flavor:

  • I do not have a camera roll of well-lit and eye-catching dishes;
  • I did not make the perfect sourdough loaf;
  • I did not refine my knife skills to the point that they no longer make my family extremely nervous;
  • I did not successfully bake chocolate chip cookies under the broiler when our oven went out for three weeks;
  • I did not cook a single meal without a consulting the recipe many times and my more culinarily inclined spouse at least once;
  • I did not cook a single meal within the time allotted in the recipe; and
  • I did not find a single food blog or recipe site that did not make me want to pull my hair out or die from scrolling.

Lack of photographic evidence notwithstanding, I have amassed a small stockpile of wins:

  • I can respond to question, “Do you want to cook dinner tonight?” without having a panic attack or becoming irate;
  • I can poke through the fridge and track down a recipe that works with my skill set and the ingredients and time we have on hand;
  • I can roast any vegetable on a sheet pan;
  • I can braid and bake a gorgeous golden challah;
  • I can deviate from the recipe when it makes sense;
  • I can anticipate what flavors will go well together;
  • I can properly season meat;
  • I can make a meal that my seven-year-old likes;
  • I can make a meal that I like.

That last one is the reason I keep going back to my cookbooks and to the kitchen. In the early days of the pandemic, the frivolous thing I missed the most was going out for breakfast. Now I hardly think about it. If there’s one thing I have in common with my own mom, it’s that my family doesn’t appreciate my cooking. Most Saturdays my daughter asks for whatever sugar cereal is in the cabinet and my husband eats whatever it is that he eats and I take 30+ minutes to cook myself the perfect eggs over easy and the perfect bacon and perfect pan-fried hash browns and sit down to breakfast mid-morning with a huge mug of black coffee and, for the next twenty minutes, my life is exactly the way I want it to be.

Now that I can cook, though, I find myself missing things I never cared about before. The other day, my husband pointed out that we can’t just run out to the store for a fresh baguette. He used to ask me to do that occasionally, and I would complain about the extra errand. Now, I can’t get the idea out of my mind. Can you even imagine the luxury of making a trip to a public place for a single ingredient? Of perusing the aisles? Of picking up a loaf of bread and squeezing it and putting it back down? I’m drooling just thinking about it.

Of course, the real reason I can cook for fun and pleasure is because I don’t have to. I will make breakfast tomorrow morning, yes, but tomorrow night we will get takeout. When Sunday rolls around, I’ll pass the ball back to my husband to figure out breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and when the pandemic rolls around and I’m back in the office, I’ll pass all the balls back to him to figure out weeknight eats. I doubt I’ll give up cooking entirely, though. My breakfasts are really getting pretty good.

Quarantine Diary Day 49

For most of our relationship, my husband and I were brunch people. This is a claim I make knowing full well it tells you next to nothing about us. After all, who, if pressed, can deny the appeal of brunch? Brunch offers indulgence for any palate at a variety of price points. Brunch works will work with whatever social structure you are embedded in, your gang of drunk girlfriends, your church group, your grandparents. Brunch is a European vacation at the end of a long American workweek, with American portions. What I’m saying is, brunch is basic, but it is basic for a reason.

As brunch people, we went out for brunch almost weekend. Among the many reasons we loved brunch:

Brunch is perfect for young parents because there is bottomless coffee plus your kids can scream pretty loudly and probably no one will notice.

Brunch is perfect for homebodies because you can be home before noon and still feel like you got out there and did something fun.

Brunch is perfect for people with complicated relationships with booze because you have the option of drinking a little or a lot early in the day but it’s not mandatory.

Brunch is perfect for people with social anxiety because it has a defined start and end and also you can always talk about the brunch.

If brunch is for jerks, we are the worst. Sadly, in recent years we gave up our habit. I can’t say for sure why. I could blame the worst aspects of the institution of brunch–long lines, crowded dining rooms, and expensive checks, but we were undeterred by those for so long that it wouldn’t be accurate. If I had to point to one deciding factor I would say it’s that we got pretty good at serving excellent breakfasts at home. Pancakes, waffles, french toast, breakfast sandwiches, eggs any way you like, avocado toast, sweet potato hash, over-the-top oatmeal. Four beverages per person, minimum: coffee, bubbly water, juice, tea. As our family life got increasingly busy, indulging at home in our jammies was just more appealing.
Early this year I got a hankering for real brunch, consisting of both savory and sweet, made and served by someone that wasn’t me. It kept not happening, though. Every Saturday morning I came home from a long desperately hungry, my husband had already signed up for a morning class at the gym. Every Friday night my husband asked, “Are you going to want to get brunch tomorrow?” I stupidly said “No.” I don’t know why. I suspect that at some point during our brunch hiatus I had come to think of breakfast at home as morally superior. Look at us, saving money, cooking our own food, eating vegetables. Brunch was for the morally weak. The last time I turned down brunch on a Friday, I regretted it before 7:00 am on a Saturday. I was finishing up my run, a 14 miler, and I was so hungry. I told my running group, “I’ve made a huge mistake.”
That was in March. Since then, I’ve eaten every breakfast, lunch, dinner, snack, and coffee at home and I’ve come to see the error of my ways. There is no virtue in denying ourselves the things we love. When this is all over, I swear to the gods of all that is good in this life (Demeter and Dionysus, think) that I will never say no to brunch again. I’m over this hearth and home business (sorry Hestia).