As I type, my older daughter is in the middle of a video call with our doctor.

Yesterday the dogs got in a fight and when she tried to break it up, Charlotte bit her in the leg, breaking skin in two places and bruising her. (And then, the fight over, my daughter was so mad she bit Coco in the ear, ha.)

Today I decided we should probably let the doctor know, just in case it gets infected and she needs antibiotics. So she downloaded the doctor’s office chat-app, or whatever it is, on her phone (which gives her access to all her medical records, too) and is now talking with the doc and showing him her leg.

Healthcare from the comfort of the living room couch: no driving, no waiting room, no paperwork, no nothing? I feel like I just time traveled thirty years into the future.

The “novel” coronavirus doesn’t feel so new anymore. It feels wearisome. Day after day, it’s more of the same. Numbers rise. Prez doles out our daily dose of crazy. People react. Desperation increases. The economy plummets.

And those of us fortunate enough to have houses stay inside them and type on our computers and watch movies and bake cakes and try to feel grateful. Still, it’s distressing. All that suffering is right there — so close we can almost touch it — and yet here we are, banished to our comfortable bubbles and not allowed out.

But the thing is, there’s always been this divide. There’s always been unspeakable suffering and vast inequalities. Just, before we were able to venture forth to mingle and help as we could, as we saw fit, as it suited us.

Now, forced to sit on our hands and watch, we see our folly: We’ve patched together our world into an acceptable-to-us reality, covering up the ugly with our bandaids of health care laws and public education and equal rights legislation, allowing ourselves to be lulled into believing (hoping?) that those things might actually fix the economic disparity, racism, and greed. 

Unfortunately for us — or maybe fortunately — the superpower of pandemics is that they are Bandaid Rippers. They tear off our carefully-placed cultural bandages exposing the painful truth beneath: our wounds aren’t healed. Rather, bone-deep and angry red, they’ve been festering all along. What a mess.

And what an opportunity.

From Arundhati Roy: This pandemic “is a portal, a gateway between one world and the next. We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas, our dead rivers and smoky skies behind us. Or we can walk through lightly, with little luggage, ready to imagine another world. And ready to fight for it.”

Wouldn’t that be novel.

I’ve never tried a negroni but now I want to:

Also, I’m thinking Big Night would make a good family night movie, yes? After all, we already love timpano…

Recently I read in a news article something to the effect that, “Even to cooking guru so-and-so, cooking can sometimes feel like a chore.”

Well, duh, I thought. What does everyone think millions of (mostly) women have been doing all these years in the kitchen? What does everyone think those restaurant employees are doing behind those swinging doors?

Working, it’s called. That’s what cooks do — NEWSFLASH — they work. Yes, sometimes cooking is a creative outlet, but much of the time it’s just straight-up drudge, tedious and ordinary and boring and exhausting, even for people who enjoy it.

And this is okay.

The good news is, once cooking becomes routine — a necessary inconvenience that one must do to, you know, stay alive — it gets easier.

And then, watch out. Because once boring tasks become easy, creativity just might happen.

Bon appetit!

And finally, my parents got a puppy.

They named him Buster. He’s four months old and likes to play fetch, and he’s super cuddly.

And now my kids want to live with my parents.


This same time, years previous: the quotidian (4.29.19), graduated!, full disclosure, thank you for holding us, the quotidian (4. 27. 15), the quotidian (4.28.14), church of the Sunday sofa, mousy mayhem, baked beans.

This same time, years previous: that fuzzy space, the quotidian (4.24.17), an ordinary break, life can turn on a dime, taking off, Sally Fallon’s pancakes, mango banana helados, cauliflower potato soup, drama trauma.

One day last week, I woke up mad.

At first I was just mildly irritated because my husband had flopped around in bed rather than slipping out of the room quietly so I could sleep, but that irritation soon morphed into an anger that bordered on full-blown rage.

I was angry at everything.

Angry that I had no one to hang out with.
Angry at people for not reaching out.
Angry that I had no one (besides my family) to feed.
Angry that no one needed me.
Angry that my younger kids couldn’t pop over to my parents to get tutored or spend the night.
Angry that my older kids couldn’t get the regular, in-person college classes they were paying for.
Angry that I couldn’t make plans.
Angry at people for making light of the crisis.
Angry at Trump for being a dick.
Angry at the GOP for not stopping him.
Angry at our church for not giving more regular updates.
Angry at people for taking all the flour and baking powder (not that I needed any, but still).
Angry at myself for being powerless, uncreative, and useless.
Angry, angry, angry.

I knew my rage was fueled by fear and sadness, worry and loneliness, but that knowledge didn’t help any. Short on sleep (thanks, hon), I had no reserves.

All day, I was off-and-on weepy.

That same day I wrote an email to our pastor to ask if she knew of ways I might be involved. “Just …. trying to find ways to stay connected and useful to combat the sadness, rage, and loneliness (not to be dramatic or anything),” I wrote.

One thing led to another and now I’m doing some of the behind-the-scenes organizational work for our local homeless shelter. It’s hardly anything, really.

But it’s also not nothing.

Another thing that helped: a long phone chat with a friend who doesn’t bat at eye at my swearing, sobbing, and poor-me pity-parties.

May we all be so fortunate to have such a friend.

That night, I slept well (this time my husband was very careful not to wake me — he’s a fast learner, that one) and the next day my burning rage had lessened to a dull throb.

Mostly, I just felt sad.

And lonely.

So I posted on my church’s facebook page that I was available to go on six-feet-apart walk-and-talks on our spacious, winding, country roads.

And then I felt terrible: What if people thought I was being careless? What if no one wanted to go on a walk with me?

Oh well, I told myself. If I got rebuffed, or ignored, so what. At least I’d spoken up. I’d tried. 

And guess what! So far three different people have taken me up on my offer! An hour or so in the fresh air, chatting about everything and nothing with another human being, isn’t much, really.

Then again, it’s not nothing.

And now, a few gems…
*It took a global pandemic, but now I’m calling my mom (Bon Appetit).

*If I made masks, this would be me (minus the Southern accent and smiles):

*Food safety and the coronvirus: a comprehensive guide (Serious Eats). My takeaway: There are not any special risks connected to food. Since the virus needs to get into your lungs, even if someone is covid-positive and sneezes directly on your salad (their example, not mine), it is unlikely to make you sick. The main risk is proximity to other people, not the food.

*The Love of God:

xoxo!

P.S. Right after I published this post, my father sent me a link to this video. It made my day:

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (4.23.18), creamed honey, out of character, loose ends, the quotidian (4.23.12).