It's not that I don't read the news at all, but I read it out of the corner of my eye, squinting at the headlines and skimming paragraphs to get the big ideas, rarely reading an article start to finish. I try to ignore politics. The man in charge told us to drink bleach. What more could I possibly need to know about him? He's so atrocious that there is no sense in getting exercised over his classless attacks and grandiosity. I just look to November.
And the numbers of dead grow. Why track them daily? It's self-preservation, but at what point does that attempt to keep myself from being exposed to the overwhelming tragedy turn into callousness? The New York Times' Sunday front page spoke to that danger this week with their tribute to the nearly 100,000 Americans who have died of COVID-19. Just a simple list of 1,000 names, ages, and places with small, telling details lifted from their obituaries, a relentless gathering of vibrant people who have been lost.
It's easy to remove myself from what's happening because that is precisely what I have been asked to do. Stay home. The very morning that grim roster of names appeared on the front page of the NYT marked my 70th day in self-quarantine. After skimming the NYT front page that remembered the deaths of tens of thousands of Americans, I spent the morning reading a new cookbook.
I have been reading books with the same strategies that I use to read the news--moving my eyes over the words and retaining just a little. I have trouble concentrating. I have started at least 7 books over the course of these past 70 days, but nothing has stuck. I've tried kids' books, funny books, apocalyptic books, books I have already read, books people have given to me, books everyone likes. I got a couple of hundred pages through one book and then just trailed off. This trend is particularly noteworthy given that last year I binged on books in a way I have not done since I was a little kid. I read 1-2 per week, gobbling insatiably as I stretched out in the bathtub.
But on the morning of day 70, I opened a cardboard box that the Amazon fairy had left outside and lifted out a tome of a cookbook that I have been eyeing for months: How to Eat Everything Vegetarian by Mark Bittman. And I read.
I started on page 1 and read all of the advice about how to stock my pantry and how to use a knife. I read details, minute details. I read dull details. I retained them. I read more dull details. I read them hungrily:
To measure dry ingredients, follow the 'spoon-and-sweep' method: use a spoon the put the ingredient in a dry measuring cup of the size called for in the recipe, heaping it a bit over the top. Then rest the flat side of a knife or spatula on the rim and swipe the excess off the top. Resist the urge to dip the cup in the container holding the ingredient; it does make a difference to how much you get. For measuring spoons, fill them with the ingredient and use the same swiping technique to level it off. fill measuring spoons to capacity with liquid.
I knew this. Of course I already knew this; my mom taught me. But the simple, reassuring poetry, the conversational exactness of it is so compelling. I can't bring myself to read the articles about all of the people who are going hungry without jobs as the virus ravages the world, but I can focus on how to put my flour in a spoon. But not for long.
I moved on to the next chapter. As people die and go hungry, I sit next to the window, looking out at my petunias, enjoying the morning sun and skimming a few suggestions about some about various ways to add grains to salad.
And the numbers of dead grow. Why track them daily? It's self-preservation, but at what point does that attempt to keep myself from being exposed to the overwhelming tragedy turn into callousness? The New York Times' Sunday front page spoke to that danger this week with their tribute to the nearly 100,000 Americans who have died of COVID-19. Just a simple list of 1,000 names, ages, and places with small, telling details lifted from their obituaries, a relentless gathering of vibrant people who have been lost.
It's easy to remove myself from what's happening because that is precisely what I have been asked to do. Stay home. The very morning that grim roster of names appeared on the front page of the NYT marked my 70th day in self-quarantine. After skimming the NYT front page that remembered the deaths of tens of thousands of Americans, I spent the morning reading a new cookbook.
I have been reading books with the same strategies that I use to read the news--moving my eyes over the words and retaining just a little. I have trouble concentrating. I have started at least 7 books over the course of these past 70 days, but nothing has stuck. I've tried kids' books, funny books, apocalyptic books, books I have already read, books people have given to me, books everyone likes. I got a couple of hundred pages through one book and then just trailed off. This trend is particularly noteworthy given that last year I binged on books in a way I have not done since I was a little kid. I read 1-2 per week, gobbling insatiably as I stretched out in the bathtub.
But on the morning of day 70, I opened a cardboard box that the Amazon fairy had left outside and lifted out a tome of a cookbook that I have been eyeing for months: How to Eat Everything Vegetarian by Mark Bittman. And I read.
I started on page 1 and read all of the advice about how to stock my pantry and how to use a knife. I read details, minute details. I read dull details. I retained them. I read more dull details. I read them hungrily:
To measure dry ingredients, follow the 'spoon-and-sweep' method: use a spoon the put the ingredient in a dry measuring cup of the size called for in the recipe, heaping it a bit over the top. Then rest the flat side of a knife or spatula on the rim and swipe the excess off the top. Resist the urge to dip the cup in the container holding the ingredient; it does make a difference to how much you get. For measuring spoons, fill them with the ingredient and use the same swiping technique to level it off. fill measuring spoons to capacity with liquid.
I knew this. Of course I already knew this; my mom taught me. But the simple, reassuring poetry, the conversational exactness of it is so compelling. I can't bring myself to read the articles about all of the people who are going hungry without jobs as the virus ravages the world, but I can focus on how to put my flour in a spoon. But not for long.
I moved on to the next chapter. As people die and go hungry, I sit next to the window, looking out at my petunias, enjoying the morning sun and skimming a few suggestions about some about various ways to add grains to salad.
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