I stir early and tiptoe downstairs. The floorboards creak, and my face cringes; surely I am waking up the household on my way to the kitchen. Pouring rolled oats and hot water into a bowl, I breathe in and look longingly out the sink window. A suburban hedge, manicured. I hear birds.
Just weeks ago, I would have seen the New York City skyline. Harlem, to the east. The sound of sirens.
Exhaling, I place my in-progress oatmeal on a wooden butcher block. I unload the dishwasher. Mandolin. Grease splatter screen. A green-and-blue-variegated, oblong platter. I open cabinets and stack dishes, which clink and clank despite my care. As I store the final spoon in the silverware drawer, I check my wrist. A personal record of three minutes and 16 seconds. Practice makes perfect. I celebrate silently and consider performing the task tomorrow blindfolded.
After a month of Quarantine, I now know every crevice of the kitchen — the home of every odd utensil at my friend’s in Rye, where I plan to stay for the remainder of the Spring term. Finals end on Friday, May 15.
It could be any day, but today is Monday. I am slated for three classes and still need to prepare. Linear Regression Models and Time Series Methods requires reading: a case study on insurance companies and redlining in 1970s Chicago.
Just weeks ago, I too would have waited until Monday morning, but instead just after midnight; I would have finished my coursework weary and in a library. I would have slept in.
At this hour, I am rested. Still, I rub my eyes, picking at my tear ducts with long, dotted-white nails. Shoot. With soap and scalding water, I wash my hands dry. Starting a cup of coffee, I forgive my negligence but am still suspicious.
I don’t like the drink — its burnt aftertaste, which lingers uncomfortably. But here, in my friend’s family, pre-packaged coffee pods are bought in bulk. As a member of their Quarantine clan, I assimilate.
Just weeks ago, I would have drunk tea.
With the push of a Keurig button, I hear a steady thrum. I see steam. Contented, I turn to the oats, which have swelled considerably. The consistency, though, is sub-par. All the time in the world to boil water over stovetop and cook porridge in old fashion, yet I decide instead to nuke it in the microwave.
I guess some things do not change; in the age of COVID-19, I still like my fingers woven, wrapped around the warmth of a hot morning beverage. I still like my watch, latched loosely around my wrist. I still want ritual. I still crave efficiency. A posteriori, I have learned to use the popcorn button.
I add toppings. A robust selection of nuts: walnuts, hazelnuts, almonds, cashews, pecans. Peanut butter. Gasp. Suddenly, I stop in my tracks; we are all out of bananas. With a shallow sigh, I instead reach for blueberries. I proceed. Pumpkin seeds. Chia seeds. A dollop of wildflower honey. Voilà, breakfast. Closing my eyes, I take a tiny bite. Effectively Anton Ego, I eat slowly and indulge in my very own Ratatouille moment. I have time to taste.
Just weeks ago, I would have feasted with friends in a crowded dining hall. We would have laughed and cried loudly and enjoyed one another’s company. We probably would have noshed quickly. Time in college is, afterall, a kind of currency. As I sit at a table for one, I wish my former self had been less frugal.
