While the world has debated whether 2020 is the dawn of the apocalypse (I’m thinking yes?), I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with condensed soup, crescent rolls, hot cereal, instant pudding, onion soup mix, gelatin and crackers. This isn’t because I’m unfeeling. I feel deep sadness and anger and more anxiety than my brain can hold, but while I’m feeling those things, I’ve also managed to feel hungry.
If left to my own devices, I would exist on cold cereal and microwavable chicken tikka masala. Ha ha, not really. I’d eat rum raisin ice cream for every meal. It’s dairy and fruit — so healthy! Fortunately, my natural inclinations are thwarted because I live with two other people who are theoretically capable of feeding themselves but rely on me for actual cooked meals representing all the food groups. (That’s coffee, noodles, cheese and smoothies, in case you didn’t know.)
The daily endeavor to make (or eat) something tasty unites us all. Every human loves delicious food. Every human is consoled by a good meal. The kitchen in these dark months has been our refuge and our solace, the last place that makes any sense.
I’m not an expert cook, but I became an expert experimenter. I tried things just to see what would happen. I puzzled out how to use leftovers or simply use up what I had to avoid making an unnecessary trip to the grocery store. My kitchen became a science lab and a playground, where the only rule was to have fun. (See the accompanying photo of my actual kitchen to get an idea of what “fun” looks like.) My goal was enjoyment rather than success. Perfection, shmerfection. Scrape off the burnt bits and eat what’s underneath or share it with the raccoons.
