Life in a Time of Isolation

With apologies to Gabriel García Márquez, whose Love in the Time of Cholera turns 35 this year… García Márquez wrote, “He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.”  Certainly, I’m unlikely to be either as prolific or as profound as he, but notice that last phrase: “life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.”  It seems to me that this is just what many of us have learned to do in these past two months, since Covid 19 took over the news and so many people’s lives – I’m grateful that I’m able to work from home, and I worry about those who must still go to a workplace, including my daughter.  So if you’re practicing social distancing, and washing your hands 8,000 times a day, thank you for helping to keep my daughter safe.  (And if you’re not, frankly, what the heck is wrong with you?!  It’s never going to hurt you to wash your friggin’ hands!  And it won't kill you to wear a mask, but it could help someone else!) 

But I digress.  So, how are we giving birth to ourselves over and over again?  If I may wax Biblical for just a moment, it’s kind of like reading the Torah: the way we understand certain passages today may be very different from the way people understood those same passages 10, 20, 100 years ago.  That doesn’t mean, necessarily, that those older ways were entirely wrong.  It just means that we’ve found new ways to understand them, to render ancient texts meaningful to us.  It’s in this way, I think, that we have opportunities to remake ourselves, without ever running away from home and changing our names.  There’s a gift there, if we’re brave enough to open it.  (Don’t worry, I’m not going to go discover the theory of relativity, or calculus, as some previous geniuses have done.  That’s not where my mind goes at all!)

I am learning things about myself, some of which make utter sense – I’d just never really thought much about them.  For instance, I’ve always loved cooking and baking.  My mum taught me to bake bread when I was about 10 or 11, though I’d been watching her work kitchen magic all my life.  My mum was a stay-at-home mum all my life, with the same responsibilities even when she became the first woman elected to the local council in our town.  My dad cooked occasionally, so I knew that men could and sometimes did cook meals, but really, the kitchen was my mum’s domain.  I learned a lot from watching her.

During this period of isolation, I am reminded that one of the ways she expressed love was to feed us: she’d make a favourite meal not just for a birthday, but because she knew you loved it, for instance.  We’d come home from school to the smell of freshly-baked bread.  After I’d gone off to university, there were times that she still seemed to be cooking or baking a lot, even though by then it was just Mum and Daddy at home.  I didn’t quite understand the volume, though I have some ideas now – and this might not have been true of my mum, but I have realized that now (and indeed, in the past), it has also been true of me.  For sure, I express love for family and friends by cooking for them – and in this time of social distancing, I’m going to drop by my daughter’s place today and deliver some of the fruits of this weekend’s labour.  Because I love her, because it’s good, healthy food, made –as my mum would say – entirely from scratch.  But also because this weekend, I have found myself particularly restless, even a little anxious.  Absolutely nothing in my life has changed since Friday, but on Saturday, I woke up and just headed for the kitchen.

I started with tiny cute chocolate cakes.  I have this neat cake pan that makes 6 tiny cute bundt cakes.  It was too adorable not to buy, and the end result here was not only adorable but also delicious...

I mean... look at that tiny cute cake tin!

Out of the oven, waiting for decoration.

Frosted and sprinkled!

Just as some people are emotional eaters, I am an emotional cook.  I’ve joked about “rage baking,” which is actually something I learned early on, when my mum told me that the best time to bake bread was if you were in a bad mood, because you’d knead it better.  She was right!  When I’m busy in the kitchen, it takes my mind off other things – even if those other things are in my subconscious and are niggling thoughts, they are sufficient to disturb my enjoyment of the day, so if I take myself to the kitchen and get creative, it will either dispel the thoughts entirely, or it will allow them to crystallise so that I know what the heck it was that I was worrying about!

I wonder whether my mum also cooked and baked when she was stressed, sad, angry, or anxious.  Was some of that food prep when I was at university because it was difficult after so many years of a houseful of children to suddenly be alone with a husband and figuring out how to cook just for two?  Did she look at her life and wonder whether its meaning was now changed to something she didn’t recognise?  She’s not here anymore, so I can’t ask her.  Maybe for her, it really was all utilitarian, but based on my own experience, I suspect that this is a shared knowledge.

Next up was roasted orange pepper soup.  I am particularly fond of recipes that are easy but impressive, that rely primarily on fresh ingredients (but can be made with things that are commonly in your cupboard and freezer and still be as delicious), and that accept all kinds of modification.  The first version of this soup I made was a curried cream of broccoli, which was and is a family favourite.  Also, bonus points, 'cause it's even healthy!  Of course, the thing with soup is that you can't really make a single serving of the stuff.  So I made my usual size batch, and my daughter will reap some of the benefits!

I chopped up a bunch of orange peppers,
sprinkled 'em with tarragon, and roasted 'em in a slow oven.

I'd sauteed some garlic and onion and added a sweet potato. While the peppers roasted, these cooked.

The finished product involved some mushroom
broth, coconut milk, and my blender.

I was up super-late last night, despite all the cooking that happened yesterday (including the tea biscuits I made to go with the soup!), so even all that cooking - and the consequent cleaning up - didn't clear my mind.  This morning when I got up, I tried a new recipe.  It's called 

Skanus varškės apkepas, and it's a traditional Lithuanian recipe.  It's really quite simple and produces something that's just lovely to look at.  The recipe calls for farmer's cheese, which I couldn't find at the grocery store, so I just used ricotta.  And there are 3 eggs in it, which gives it a sort of custardy/quichey texture (Yes, I know those aren't real words - this is the poetic license of the kitchen!).  I'm better at some Lithuanian recipes than others, that is certain.  And this one is delicious.

The batter. I had no vanilla so used almond. 
And I added nutmeg, just because I like it!

The gorgeous (and tasty) end result.

So I'm learning new things, for sure.  And as far as isolation goes, there certainly are worse ways to spend my time.  Today's lesson, though, causes me to think about my foremothers - my own mum, of course, but her mother, and hers before her.  And my dad's mum, who I hardly knew but remember as a remarkable baker.  There is so much about keeping house that is routine and tedious.  We do some things because we must: we have to eat, after all.  And sometimes we pull out all the stops, because we want to make something special for people we love.  Sometimes, we want to learn something new ourselves and try something entirely different.  And sometimes, perhaps, there's something else at work, and cooking is the magic that helps us sort it out.