Over the last few weeks of lockdown, I’ve found myself going through a number of different cooking emotions: normally a form of solace, something I turn to in times of crisis, it has become a little more complicated. I already knew I was privileged to have a well-stocked kitchen, radio 4 burbling away in the background, as I pottered about making whatever came into my head that day, but I don’t think I’d considered how stabilising the time I spent in there was.
When the pandemic first came to Britain, I felt stuck between a rock and a hard place: not wanting to stockpile and deprive others, while also not knowing whether, if forced to quarantine, I’d have enough in to keep us going for a fortnight. I tried planning far in advance, going into the supermarket with a military-level strategy, only to discover I couldn’t get the ingredients I needed, or that there wasn’t a grocery delivery available.
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