I understand this is not the location: it is, after all, a food column. When I was asked to compose it, focusing on the circumstance, something in me turned. The Hindu has readers who have access to food, however need ideas on how to deal with scarcities. Scarcities not of amount, but of range; in the worst-case situation, maybe of traditional active ingredients. And usually of aid.
A number of weeks earlier, an American magazine had a tongue-in-cheek post where the author, an accomplished baker, went to the regional grocery, noted that yeast was tidy off the racks, and had a face-off with another customer over the last bag of flour on the leading rack. He muttered– in his mind– about how the other chap had probably never ever baked bread before in his life, what a waste that bag would be, and how he understood the other would fail and get his comeuppance.
I am an insect
It was slightly amusing, in an exceptional, nudge-nudge, wink-wink sort of method. Deep down, it was a tip of how privileged we are; we look for range. When asked to offer to those who have absolutely nothing, we hem and haw. I’m trying not to sermonise, but let’s count our true blessings and do what we can to help others.
I can’t help but think about the ant and insect myth since when the lockdown was expected, all the ants I know drove around packing their vehicles, stockpiling victuals. Insects like me didn’t, for vaguely moral factors. And now we’re stuck with what we have in our cupboards. Which are, like Old Mom Hubbard’s, bare. I’m a ruthless cleaner-of-shelves, so no serendipitous thrills await me, however far back I reach into fridges or cabinets. I understand precisely what I can expect to discover– the number of stumps of drying cheese and how many inches of peanut butter in the container.
I see what individuals post on social networks about what they prepare, of how they’re coping with the lockdo