To All The Quarantine Hobbies I Loved Before
Baking bread, growing poisonous mushrooms, Amazon binge-shopping… it was fun while it lasted.
Dear Bread-Baking,
You taught me that patience is a real skill and that proofing time is like Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Store-bought bread will never taste as good as homemade bread but I’ll still get it because I’m lazy. You take between two hours and two days to be ready, but it takes me fifteen minutes to walk to the grocery store. Also, banana bread sucks. I said what I said.
Dear Netflix Binge-Watching,
We had a very unhealthy relationship with each other. We had some good times (The Queen’s Gambit) and some bad times (Emily in Paris). We don’t see each other often anymore. That’s because I got Disney+.
Dear Dusty Ukulele,
You were fun and exciting at the beginning of quarantine and made my fingers sore from the foreign contortion and constant strumming. My fingertips are now stronger because of you and I will always remember what G C E A sounds like. I was so proud of the callouses you gave me. My neighbors probably hated you as I learned and practiced the same five chords without ever advancing to a real song. Thanks for looking cool in the background of my Zoom calls.
Dear Amazon Binge-Shopping,
I acquired so much cardboard because of you. You fueled a Prime 2-day shipping addiction that was difficult to break but I had to let go for the sake of the environment, small businesses, and my pocketbook. I think of you often and creep your page to see what’s new with you but I really need to end our relationship. Please stop contacting me.
Dear Jam-Making,
You taught me the difference between jelly and jam. You led me to purchase pectin for the first time in my life. I am still not sure if I sterilized my jars correctly but it’s been six months and no mold has grown yet so I think we’re good? I’ve no idea what to do with the dozens of jars in my freezer, but thanks for your generosity.
Dear My Darling House Plants,
You were the one hobby that predated the pandemic and grew to unprecedented volumes. Our home is an urban jungle and I cherish our family of baby leaves. Taking care of you and seeing you grow taller and leafier gives me purpose. You helped me grow as much as I helped you. I bought and touched worm poop for you. If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is. My friends and family say that I am obsessed but I call it devotion.
Dear Poisonous Mushroom-Growing,
You appeared as suddenly into my life as you disappeared when you sprung from the dirt of my plants. Google told me you were exotic and from the tropics but highly poisonous. I really wanted to touch you but my survival instincts told me otherwise. So I made my husband poke you instead. I let you stay in my life because you reminded me of the world that exists beyond my apartment and the grocery store. Every time I looked at you, I saw the Amazonian rainforest. Every time I thought of you, I thought of Mexican rattlesnakes. Every time I smelled you, I probably hallucinated. You’ve inspired me to start a shiitake mushroom farm and now I’m just waiting for my logs of oak wood and shiitake spores to arrive in the mail.
Dear Spiritual Mantra Chanting,
Instagram influencers in Bali told me that you would cleanse my fear, anxiety, and depression during the pandemic. That you would release positive vibes and improve my mental health. I went all-in with you, my meditation bowls, and my essential oils. I even bought sage to burn but my fire alarm and subsequent firefighters weren’t impressed. The ménage à trois was wonderful but was disrupted by my husband playing video games in the background. In between “Ohms” and “Shanti Shanti Shanti,” my peace was oft interrupted with yelling about Zergs and Terrans. I’m sorry we didn’t work out. It wasn’t you. It was my husband playing StarCraft.
To all of my other quarantine hobbies,
Duck herding, learning Russian, raising worms, fork bending, etc. — you all were so-so. We probably had a solid few minutes together, too.
