The highlight of my evening the other day was not making these failed amaretti cookies. It was jumping on a cardboard box.
It was the box that food samples for my last television segment had come in and I had to to break it down for my recycling bin. I’d tried to tear it, but there was a thick layer of tape across the bottom and my nails are short. (To keep feeling as though life hasn’t pressed pause, I’ve kept cutting them even though I’m not rock climbing lately because the climbing gym is closed.)
So instead of going to get a pair of scissors or a knife to break down the box, I put it upside-down on the floor in the hallway and stepped on top of it in my moccasin-style slippers until it slow-motion collapsed. Then I stepped up on the parts that were still sticking up until they slowly folded inwards, too. Then, to get the last bits of sticking-up cardboard to submit to my wishes, I jumped on them. And jumped. And jumped. And smiled. It was like a bouncy castle for adults, but without the germs, which is important in this time of “wash your hands, don’t touch your face.”
I was glad my neighbours didn’t come out of their apartment to see what the commotion was, but mostly out of fear of proximity rather than embarrassment.
The other day, I went for a walk around my neighbourhood. I peeked into nearby apartments. I wanted to know how other people are living through this. Everyone’s self-isolation setup is unique. Social distancing means something different if you’re a parent of three, a 60-year-old living alone or a student with roommates.
Are they smiling? Are they bored? Are they experimenting with sourdough? Are they jumping on boxes? I wondered. Are they having one-person dance parties to the “Mood Booster” playlist on Spotify? Is that everyone’s default “suggested for you” playlist these days, or does Spotify know that I’ll probably like Chelsea Cutler and Alexander 23’s “Lucky”? Does it know I’m living alone? (Is Spotify making me paranoid?)
Through one open window as I walked by I saw three twenty-something roommates sitting in a living room together, two sharing a couch, one on a chair, each on his laptop. I was jealous. They have other people. I don’t know if I’m allowed to have other people. I can’t invite friends over. I’m not even sure I’m supposed to be running with anyone else, even if I keep a two-metre distance between us and we shout our news. Even if it is the highlight of my day, even better than box jumping.
I’m testing recipes this week for plant-based foods that kids will like. I can’t get any kids to test them. Heck, I can’t get any adults to test them. Maybe I can leave a care package of jackfruit tacos at my friend’s door? The mango paletas would melt, but I figure what kid wouldn’t want a mango popsicle? The eggplant lasagna might be a harder sell.
I also launched my Quarantine Cooking e-book. It’s made over $1000 already for the Montreal Restaurant Workers Relief Fund. Elena’s cookbook raised over $11,000 in just a few days, even though it launched immediately after mine. They’re also selling a cute t-shirt (it’s a natural wine joke). I’m sure that’s the difference – the shirt – not the fact that everyone loves their sugo.
Now what? What’s the next project? Should I get paid ads for the book in the hope that future donations off-set the advertising? Or should I move on to my “What interesting people are cooking at home during social distancing” podcast? (Name TBD, clearly.) Mostly I want to find out what people’s lives are like right now. Are they changing their shirts every day? Putting on pants? Giving blood? Taking up running? Did they buy the last pull-up bar before I could? As with cutting my nails even though I don’t need to, I’ve started wearing spring dresses at home as an excuse to keep this from turning into a leggings or pajamas fest. Besides, it’s warmer indoors than out.
Speaking with chefs this week for my last Montreal Gazette article for a while, I realized that everyone’s living a different socially distanced reality right now. (The article will be my last one for the paper for at least a month or two because of a drop in advertising and an alleged lack of audience interest in anything other than Coronavirus stories, by which I assume they mean “news,” since I pitched six food stories related to Covid-19, from takeout and delivery options to restaurant waste to food bank initiatives). Young parents like chefs Leigh Roper (Foxy) and Nicholas Giambattisto (Mirabel Brasserie) and Jonathan Rehayem (ITHQ) are loving the time with their kids, at least for now. Vanya Filipovic and Marc-Olivier Frappier (Vin Mon Lapin) are feasting on crab and local shrimp while doing no-touch drop-offs of their kitchen sink cookies (genre, cookies with rye, buckwheat, and all-purpose organic flours with chocolate and pine nuts – a recipe from a pastry chef friend in London) to their small team of employees currently out of work.
Charles-Antoine Crête is making sandwiches for Accueil Bonneau. (Marc-Olivier Frappier donated all the leftover ham ends from Mon Lapin’s popular ham to his efforts.) John Winter Russell of Candide’s is working on a collaboration with the Tablée des Chefs to feed the homeless, while at home he’s very slowly working his way through the literal tonnes of canned and preserved foods that make up much of his restaurant’s winter and spring menu.
Only one of the chefs I spoke with was alone, but she’s still operating as a takeout and delivery service, so she sees her employee and sous chef regularly; they handle the order packing and delivery while she handles the kitchen. Like me, she can’t train at the gym anymore, since it’s closed. And like Jonathan Lapierre-Réhayem, she has a bunch of seal meat in the freezer that she was planning to use for Seal Fest before it was cancelled. It’ll make its way into a carpaccio sometime in the future, I expect.
As I (not-so-seriously) consider doing my taxes for the third time, just for something to do, and mess up trial #1 of a recipe for cinnamon amaretti for an article (pictured above), I wonder how long this will continue. How many more living rooms will I get to peek into? How many more still lifes will I walk past of lives put on hold?
And, more importantly, when’s the next time I’ll actually be invited in?
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