Writing Through a Pandemic: The Dish Less Traveled
"If you're writing or editing or working on a book right now, it may be incredibly difficult because the future is so uncertain. But every word you put on paper is an affirmation of the fact that there will be a future. It's a profound act of faith." - Talia Lavin
At the very start of the pandemic I taught a few online generative classes in April, May and June to give my fellow writers deadlines and inspiration during what was an incredibly uncertain and destabilizing time. Everyone was so ready to write and the work we created together was joyful and complex and human. With permission, I’ll be sharing some of this writing over the next few weeks. Please help us celebrate what we created in the midst of so much destruction.
***
Jeffifer wrote: "I loved the memoir class with Allison. I wanted a safe, fun space to look into old memories and feel some ease in writing about parts of my life I was reluctant to look too closely at. What was I afraid of? I found fun, poignant memories and a group of people who were looking at their own histories, past and present. We spurred each other on. Food is such a huge part of my life and the catalyst for so many memories. I loved Allison's quip to not forget the failures! Immediately "the pasta story" sprung to mind. Not only was it fun to write, but it came out so easily that I lost a lot of the fear I had around looking at old memories."
The Dish Less Traveled
In my mid-20’s, I was in graduate school at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. I loved the big small-town, the capitol of the state. I’d just come from Ithaca, New York, which I adored but was much smaller. Madison had a similar “feel” and had amenities of a larger city—a farmer’s market around the capitol square on Saturday mornings, for example. I was an avid attendee.
I felt drawn to my fellow academicians, mostly graduate students and post-doctoral fellows, the latter who’d obtained their graduate degrees and were getting further training before applying for the “real job” of being a faculty member. Most of them were as enthusiastic about food as I was. Since most of our time was spent in the lab, library, or field (I studied the sex lives of the wild plant Impatiens capensis, so part of my time was spent outdoors), the problem of eating loomed ever present. Who had time? Come evening, returning home and grabbing a bite to eat before going back to the lab or library was our norm.
But fun stuff outside the lab was needed too. So we’d invite each other to our respective houses or apartments to meet roommates and have dinner. One of my colleagues, Mike, a post-doc in a neighboring lab studying fly neurophysiology and genetics, was among my fellow food enthusiasts. We often lunched together.
One day, over a picnic lunch outside the genetics building, I explained to him that I’d offered to make dinner for my roommate Janeen, who was having a hard week. Did he want to come over and share the meal? Yes, he did. As we talked about what I might make (a favorite topic of conversation was always what someone else might make; everyone had an opinion), he asked what Janeen liked. Vegetables and rice, I said. But I wanted to make her something special.
“How about pasta?” Mike suggested.
“Yes,” I said hesitantly.
I wasn’t a big pasta fan; and whatever I was making I had to feel enthusiastic about it—she’d be able to taste it if I wasn’t. I mean, Love travelled from the hands to the heart—or to the mouth and stomach in this case. Mike understood immediately. (How did I have the immense good fortune to land among a group of people who got that? My family never acknowledged stuff like that.)
“How about homemade pasta?’ he ventured.
“Wow,” I said perking up. Homemade pasta seemed to fulfill the requirements. And it would be a new adventure for me—definitely one I could infuse with love.
It didn’t matter that I’d never done it before—that was part of the attraction. But was it hard? I did have a pasta machine, a gift from my Mom, which I’d never used, but which had set off alarm bells at the airport the year I first travelled to Madison. I’d been reluctant to give it away, so it lay around gathering dust.
“Yes,” said Mike. “It’s easy. Especially if you have a machine. And I’ll help you.”
Now there was an offer I couldn’t refuse. Time in the kitchen with another food enthusiast was too good to pass up. So I accepted.
Dinner was at 6:30 PM later that week, so we agreed to get together at 4:30 PM to start, the pasta needing some time to air before we actually put it in the simmering water to cook.
On the appointed day, I arrived home at 4:30 on the dot.
No Mike.
I took the luxury of going up to my room, changing clothes, and washing my face, just to settle in at home.
Still no Mike.
I began making the sauce, which included Gorgonzola cheese and walnuts, a very special treat indeed.
Still no Mike. Should I call him? In the lab? No, not done. He was probably in the middle of something he couldn’t leave and wouldn’t come to the phone anyway. He would’ve called otherwise.
My agitation mounted. Would dinner be ready? I knew Janeen was really looking forward to it. Fortunately, she had not yet arrived home from her job at a day care center. At 5:30 PM, I started making the pasta. It took me awhile, and by the time he arrived at 6, I’d just finished making it. “Sorry”, he said, abjectly. “Stuck at the lab.” It was a common occurrence. I wasn’t mad at him, but I was even more agitated by now because the pasta might not come out well. But we set to work.
“We’ll have to cook it right away,” he said, as he filled a gallon pot with water. “No time to dry it.”
“What kind of sauce did you make?”
“Gorgonzola with walnuts.”
“Oh, yum,” he replied as he tasted it. At least the sauce will be good, I thought to myself.
The pasta was a disaster. It lumped together and sank like a stone to the bottom of the pot.
What could we do? Janeen had come home, exclaiming how much she appreciated our efforts. She went into her bedroom, just off the kitchen, to change and relax before dinner.
We hadn’t even made a salad, having spent all our time on the pasta.
We served it, liberally covered with Gorgonzola sauce.
The worst part was that Janeen pretended to like it. She stuffed it in her mouth, grimacing, and then saying “This is GREAT” with false, but well-meant enthusiasm.
At least the sauce was good.
Jeffifer Shoemaker, Chesapeake City, MD
Jeffifer was born in the desert on a navy base and has since embraced all forms of paradox. Xe lives in the waterlands of Eastern Maryland, USA, practicing fiber arts, doll making, herbal medicine, and communion with land spirits. Xe loves to cook, but leaves the crafting of pasta to Capellos.com