I Am Still In Quarantine And I Am So Damn Tired Of Cooking
Dealing with my quarantine freshman 15
At First, I Couldn’t Be Happier
I was Augustus Gloop — diving into my personal river of gluttony and cavorting through a field of gumdrops.
Tacos and tequila for lunch. Prosecco and pizza for dinner. Quarantine was my delicious purgatory, a magical place where time stood at a mellow standstill. The pounds didn’t matter, the sourdough bread always rose perfectly, and dessert was not merely a suggestion, but a requirement.
But then, reality set in.
The first step of surviving quarantine is to eat everything within a 10-foot radius.
To prepare for what feels like an upcoming apocalypse — the impending Ragnarok — my coping mechanism is to eat vicariously, to drink abundantly, and to live as if none of us will be here long enough to contract type II diabetes.
That extra pat of butter on my bagel? No one is around to shame me for it. Eating Nutella out of the jar? Well, that just saves on dishes. I tell myself am merely being practical.
But at some point comes the crushing realization that one day soon this pause to life will be come to an end. There will be in a day when I am required leave the house in something other than sweatpants and an old t-shirt I’ve worn for a week straight.
I realize I may have overdone it.
If I see another picture of banana bread on Instagram I am going to lose it.
Cooking during quarantine began as a distraction from despair. Then, at some point it became the only source of daily change in a world where everything else came to a sharp standstill (you are not going anywhere — might as well make French Toast for breakfast). Meal planning was cathartic. I could transform into Ina Garten and finally finish that weekend-long project from the pages of Bon Appetit (an afternoon to make kougin amann? Sure, let’s do it). I did everything I could do to avoid the Covid-19 trackers. So I ate, and I cooked, and I ate some more. At some point, it grew to be too much of a good thing.
After 8 weeks, I am so damn tired of cooking.
My brain is 70% Aperol Spritz
Shanghai is no longer asleep — but it is not altogether awake. We are halfway to normal. Museums, theatres, karaoke bars, sports venues are still shut down. Most restaurants are open, but getting in takes a green QR code, a temperature check, and a one-page form. It feels more like applying for a job than going out for tapas.
This is the new normal. We are like lemmings, finally climbing out of our holes, still shell-shocked. Every reunion is a call for raucous celebration. Weeks of self-isolation mean that we desperately crave human interaction. And out in the real world, there is nothing to do but feast. From the ravages of quarantine, we scrounge from happy hour to happy hour. We have no cultural pursuits, so our brains slosh around in a slurry of Aperol Spritzes, our arteries clog with cheesy Arancini.
Now I am not cooking to live, I am cooking to survive.
For weeks on end, I ate too hedonistically, too indulgently and I am paying the price with both my increased cholesterol and my swelling waistline. Besides, how can I spend two hours deep-frying General Tso’s chicken when my colleagues have finally figured out how to use Zoom and I reluctantly have to take their calls? Now, my quarantine meals are smoothies. I need to nourish my body, and so the only way to do it is to starve my soul. I am cooking the same things every day: egg scrambles for breakfast, quinoa salad for lunch, a fish fillet for dinner. Hardly fodder for Instagram.
Cooking has become a chore. And I find that I need to fill my time with something else, so I write and I complain about cooking. I reluctantly throw myself back into my work. I spend time dreaming about that kougin amann that I never made (but there’s always next weekend). I waste away hours being anxious for the world around me, wondering if my time in quarantine will permanently change me. And all I know that right now, I am so damn tired of cooking.
Please send help.
