The basement fridge is nearly empty. A bag of carrots, some lemons, an extra quart of vanilla yogurt.
We still have giant bags of pasta and rice in the pantry, ten cans of black beans, a huge tub of hummus that we probably won’t finish.
I am lucky. While sheltering in place, I stocked up. I had money and space – an extra refrigerator and freezer, an entire basement kitchen. My college kids had returned to their childhood bedrooms; five of us were eating three meals a day at home.
A few weeks into the lockdown, I misread the order information from a local bulk supply outlet and accidentally purchased 45 dozen fresh eggs. I spent the next three days donating them to emergency pantries and my friends who were preparing for Passover, a holiday that requires dozens of eggs. But not 45 dozen.
I bought a giant box of frozen tilapia filets. My husband found new ways to cook them on his dinner prep nights. We ate a lot of fish.
We made sourdough.
Miriam – a food preserver even when we’re not living through a pandemic – pickled magnolia flowers, bottled cherry blossom vinegar, made capers from dandelions.
Sammy cooked tempeh and cauliflower curries, roasted sweet potatoes. He even fried hot chicken one night, on a quest for a dish resembling a blistering late-night snack he and David ate in Nashville.
Birch experimented with pie dough and mushrooms. She learned to sharpen knives on a whetstone, made chocolate cake, vegetable stock and risotto with pesto.
We thought a lot about food.
The big kids returned to Ann Arbor last Monday. With only three of us in the house and better stocked stores, I am learning to shop like a normal person again. I still avoid supermarkets if possible. I prefer curbside pick-ups and deliveries. I know this is only a pause in the pandemic. I will probably stock up again when the second wave hits.
I hope my college kids can stay at school.
I hope my youngest has something resembling a senior year.
The only thing I know for sure, is that I won’t run out of rice.
Writing It Down 