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.
Next, I tried moving from meal-to-meal, dependent only on what was available to me in my cupboards; I was lucky to be able to do this, of course, but I desperately missed the happy anticipation that went along with thinking of tomorrow’s supper, or Sunday’s lunch. I am one of life’s planners. I am not a thrower-together-er. Amidst all the changes and fears, it became a peculiar focal point of what life was like before lockdown, and what it is like now. I was sad for those lost possibilities and the tiniest grievances during a time of global pain and panic, but the only thing that I could focus on without losing my mind. I began to dread meal preparation, a former pleasure.
Lasagne is an inherently
comforting dish
But suddenly, almost out of nowhere, last week there came a point where I wanted to be back in the kitchen.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in