First came the tuna melts . When the pandemic first descended , and I was stuck at home with a pantry and fridge stocked with slow-to-expire ingredients ( canned tuna , bread , sliced cheese , Miracle Whip ), I started making tuna melts . Greasy , heavy and cheesy , these sandwiches were a comfort food during those first frenzied weeks , and a dish I perfected out of sheer repetition . I learned which bread and cheese worked best ( seven grain , Monterey Jack ); how much butter to spread on the outside surfaces and how long to grill the sandwich for the perfect golden exterior ; how much celery to include in the tuna salad for the optimum crunch factor ; and how a little side of honey mustard for dipping takes the whole thing to another level . Undoubtedly , this coping ritual contributed to the first ( but certainly not last ) pounds I put on during quarantine .
Next came the cooking-as-courtship phase . I was lucky to meet someone during those early weeks . Georgina matched on a dating app , we conducted our first few dates via FaceTime and eventually , cautiously , we met for a walk outside in person . Over time , we became comfortable spending time together indoors and , soon , we were hanging out every evening . Cooking was one of the main ways that we expressed our affection .
I ’ ve been in enough relationships to know the many ways two people can be food-incompatible : one person drinks way more or less than another ; one person is gluten-free or vegan , while the other isn ’ t ; one person is , inconceivably , not a sweet tooth . But Georgina and I have excellent culinary chemistry . And , now in addition to simply feeding myself , I had an audience , a culinary muse , someone to cook for and with . Before eating , we would snap a picture to file into our shared folder that grew to contain hundreds of photos of pizza , salads , burgers , soups , pancakes , baconwrapped scallops . Over time , I stopped offering preemptive disclaimers or apologies before I cooked for Georgina . “ I ’ m not sure how this will turn out …” “ I hope this is edible !” “ Promise you won ’ t sue me if you get sick from this ?” Progress .
As spring turned into summer , a new food season arrived ; it was time to slowly , cautiously , return to ordering takeout . While I still avoided eating indoors ( and I ’ m somewhat baffled by people who do ), I started returning to some of my old staples : Haruki East in Wayland Square ; Tallulah ’ s Taqueria on Ives Street ; Kabob and Curry on Thayer Street ; Wildflour Bakery in Pawtucket ; Don Jose Tequilas on Atwells Avenue . I also became a devotee of the pop-up croissant wizard , Butterbang , who takes orders online and serves customers out of the door of his kitchen in Olneyville .
Takeout , which felt as natural as breathing to me before the pandemic , had like so many things changed during the pandemic . On one hand , it felt risky to venture back into places I had casually strolled into countless times with my mouth and nostrils blissfully uncovered . One restaurant near me now greeted customers with a hastily constructed tunnel of clear plastic protective sheeting . But , at the same time , spending money at these restaurants now felt like something honorable , a way to help prop up local businesses , perhaps even a kind of civic duty . But , still , for most meals , I cooked .
C ooking , it turns out , is a perfect pandemic activity . It ’ s a way to feel accomplished in a world that allows few opportunities , or the mental bandwidth , to get anything done . You can look at a steak or a bowl of pasta or a batch of cookies and say , “ I made that .”
Cooking is a means of exploration when you ’ re stuck in the same place . During my year of COVID cooking , I tried ramen , tacos , schnitzel , paella , quesadillas and various kinds of pasta ; I experimented with cumin , paprika , soy sauce and miso , all from the confines of good ol ’ 02906 . It was a kind of travel without traveling .
Crucially for me , cooking is also a way to drop out of my anxious mind and into my body . It ’ s hard to be fixated on the horrors happening outside of my apartment when you ’ ve got , say , a pan of asparagus roasting in the oven and a | | CONTINUED ON PAGE 113
RHODE ISLAND MONTHLY l MAY 2021 71