It’s about 1:00 p.m. on a recent weekday. I’m at work, carefully cloistered in my office and intentionally distanced from a skeleton crew of essential workers. I’m hungry. I’ve eaten an abysmal lunch of leftover frozen pizza along with peanut butter toast.
I feel dissatisfied and deprived. Though we have oodles of noodles and reams of beans in the pantry, I haven’t had fresh fruit in about five days. Last night I made a salad with the final remnants of romaine lettuce and a few carrots. I dredged up leftover string beans (previously frozen) and added some aged croutons and called it good. Well, I called it the best I could do.
I have access to a nearby grocery store, and it has implemented COVID-19 health protocols that limit exposure to others. My husband and I could legitimately shop during senior hours to reduce our risk of contamination. But we’ve decided not to, instead opting for grocery store pick-up. Our allotted time slot is still several days away, and though I have a yearning for sweet potato chips, commonsense dictates that I deny my craving.
I’ve never enjoyed going to the grocery store, its allure akin to picking up dry cleaning or putting gasoline in the car. Several years ago, I relinquished food procurement to my diligent and cheerful husband. I’m neither a cook nor a connoisseur; I have a simple diet, mostly healthy, consisting of an abundance of fruit, fresh vegetables, cheese, nuts, and turkey. Scarcity of supplies has never been something I considered.
But things have changed. I’ve become food frugal and, I admit, slightly possessive about dwindling resources. I recently eyed a solitary Satsuma and briefly pondered offering to split it with my husband. Instead, I slipped it surreptitiously into my pocket and ate it in another room. I’ve cooked a turkey burger without considering whether my husband would want one. I’ve steadfastly eaten wilted cauliflower that was unpalatable. I’ve Googled whether “best by” dates are mandates or merely marketing ploys by food industry lobbyists.
To be clear: dealing with lack of variety during a pandemic does not compare to hunger fomented by economic distress. And yet, for the first time, I’ve witnessed a not-so-subtle shift in my relationship with what I eat and how I plan for it. I freeze leftovers promptly to ensure that they aren’t wasted. I’ve discovered that steamed, packaged vegetables are tasty. I eat the heels of bread loaves. I’ve learned that thawed blackberries maintain enough structural integrity to add to cereal. I’ve determined that you can combine almost anything with lettuce and create a decent salad. I’ve uncovered my relationship with sweets and made peace with their temporary absence.
I realize that hunger is physical, but deprivation is emotional. Food variety is a luxury that I’ve taken for granted until now. Access to nourishing sustenance is a privilege. In the past, I’ve sneered at a humble apple if it fell below the status of organic Honeycrisp, and I’ve tossed out cucumbers that had so much as a hint of softness. But I have a new-found respect for unassuming staples. Well, except, for slices of leftover frozen pizza.