March 19th

On baking bread, healing, and the passing of time.

March 19th, 2020

Today was hard because I was alone and the sun never came out. Looking out my window is an unwelcome reminder of an unfamiliar world. I only see cars, and the occasional Seamless courier biking by. The Williamsburg bridge is empty, aside from a few pedestrians passing each other with wary glances. I miss the other people—the sea of strangers that engulfs me as soon as my shoes hit concrete. I know they are out there, and it makes me sad that I can’t see them. It makes me sad that they can’t see each other.

In a way, it’s sort of like we’re all on our own vacations. Some retreated to isolated cabins. Others returned to family homes to weather the storm. I stay where I am and hold tightly to a handful of close friends. I fight back against this quiet and unknown and terrifying thing. I take care of myself, and I take care of them. It’s all I know how to do. I cook, and I laugh, and I hope for the best.

Time ceases to exist. Instead, our lives and our feelings revolve around the weather. We eat when we’re hungry, and sleep when we’re tired. We talk about nothing, and everything. I feel empowered, but helpless. Isolated, yet connected. Bored, and overwhelmed.

We are all hurting, but healing. We are doing our best.

I’ve been in a fog since the restaurant closed. I’ve forgotten what life was like before this, what “normal” even means. I haven’t had time to think or breathe or feel. I have poured my energy instead into sorting through legs of jamón and rationing out produce to send home with staff members. The last few days have felt like a bad dream, and I am only starting to wake up.

I felt so much all at once when were still in limbo, desperately trying to keep things the same. We fought so hard against it all, as our lives were swept up in a riptide. Arms flailing we pretended that it was all okay, that the world wasn’t ending, clinging to fragments of reassurance that have since faded. It took everything out of me—fighting that hard—and losing to something outside of anyone’s control.

It’s as if someone has hit the pause button, like we’re resetting some massive imaginary contraption. Maybe it’s a chance to start over from scratch; to prioritize; to re-center. To find ourselves without any outside interference.

Sometimes I feel as though I could coast in this in between place for a while. A part of me enjoys the beautiful balance of self-care and rest and creativity. I suddenly have nothing but time and space. It feels like I can do anything.

But with this freedom comes extreme limitation. How much and for how long, no one knows. I begin to sink into the “new normal” that they talk about, and it feels wrong. I don’t want this to be normal—or maybe I do.

Right now, normal is waking up with the sun and doing yoga on the roof. It is learning to make english muffins from scratch, and being pleasantly surprised by the outcome. It is sitting in a sunny window, and reading a good book. It is picking up flour and eggs from the bakery across the street and wine from the Greek restaurant that has converted into a corner store. It is breathing deeply, and taking things day by day.

It’s going to be a long time until anything is “normal” again, whatever that means. Will it be the same as it was before? Maybe it will be better.

Maybe in the “new normal”, we will go outside whenever the sun comes out. We will smile because the sky is blue and beautiful, and because that is enough. We will learn to appreciate walking in the rain and staying home during a blizzard. We will finally wake up, craving fresh air and warm embraces.

Maybe people will care about where their food comes from. They may even grow to respect the people like me who carry it to them on silver trays. They are already bored and curious and hungry. They are afraid of the grocery store, unsure how to sustain themselves. They are starting to pay attention.

Sometimes I wonder if this was all for the best; some sort of necessary and shared evil. That’s not to say it isn’t horrific—death and sickness and loneliness—but maybe there’s a reason for it all. Silenced voices are finally being heard. Hidden truths are revealing themselves. Genuine connections are being formed. The world is hurting and healing, and soon it will be better. It has to be.

As I sit on my roof and look out over lower Manhattan, I’m thinking about a farm. It has lots of nice places to sit and read and write and think. The air is fresh, not like here. The sky is blue and beautiful, and that is enough.

It has a small farm house, with a porch and a bench overlooking patches of vegetables. The kitchen is flooded with light, the shelves filled with cookbooks and jars of homemade pickles and mismatched ceramics. There are herbs growing in the window, and skillets on the stove.

I cook for no one, and for everyone. I cook for myself. I eat food that I grew with my own fingers, using recipes from my imagination. I pull inspiration from the ground, and it works. I can see it, smell it, taste it.

Somehow, it all works.

---

I’ll be taking next week off to sleep in late and bake some bread, so this will be the last email until the new year. Thank you for all of your support, and I’ll see you soon!

If you like what you read on Thursdays and want to try reading on Monday too, sign up for a full subscription and get your first month for free. Offer ends on December 31st: