![]() Not 30 minutes can go by without my stomach grumbling for something: tortilla chips dipped in guacamole usually, or sometimes a bite of the not-too-sweet cake that has become a near-permanent fixture on my kitchen counter. (Delivery is an option, though in the fraught ethical equation between supporting the restaurant business and minimizing another person’s potential for contagion, I have leaned heavily toward the latter.) Breakfast, lunch, dinner: This is what I ponder as soon as I get up. This endeavor-three meals a day, week in and week out-consumes my waking hours. Thousands of waiters and chefs line up for unemployment. This scene has the watery quality of a distant recollection, belonging to a little fishbowl of a universe where we once swam snugly together-a universe that, unbelievably, is now gone. I miss the whole rigmarole: the cold cocktail after a hard week’s work the clamor of other people, other lives the hand raised to scribble the air for the check. ![]() ![]() Food prepared offstage, invisibly, materializing at the table as if by magic. ![]() Food delivered in courses, by a smiling stranger’s hand. Remember restaurants? I do, but dimly: candlelight, cloth napkins, a basket of warm bread. ![]()
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