This morning, I stepped on the bathroom scale before taking even one sip of coffee. Good. Another ounce lost. I celebrate every downward digit, no matter how small. This is because during the first few months of Covid-19, I put on 15.
Would someone please tell me what all the baking was about? I know I wasn’t the only one who sifted her or his underused talents to find an inner Betty Crocker.
For the first four months of the Covid shutdown, I ran up big MasterCard tabs at Kroger as if I’d never see food again. It was stuff I wouldn’t buy in saner times, like cans of buttermilk biscuits and two-pound bags of chocolate chips. I bought eggs, dozens of eggs, and yeast before there was a national run on it. I even looked for lard because I’d heard it was the secret to the flakiest of pie crusts. Seriously – lard!
During that time, two of my children lived with me, determined to finish their spring college courses online, so the Mother Thing kicked in full force. They are not little kids by the way. They’re in their thirties, but I could do one thing for them. I could vaccinate them with casseroles so heavy I could hardly lift the pan. I knew this homemade anti-viral could not possibly work, but every night I turned the oven dial to 350 and waited for the ding.
I made huge meals and sheets of fudge brownies. There was something sweet and a big bunch of it daily. Carbs were what my family needed. Lots and lots of carbs would get us through.
I wasn’t the only person who rushed the grocery during senior hour (7 to 8 a.m.). A friend of Ukrainian heritage posted pictures on Facebook of elaborately braided kolach. Photos popped up of real mac and cheese, not the box kind, but with grated cheddar and buttery bread crumb topping; a lasagna five noodles high, layered with a thick mortar of ricotta and mozzarella; and chicken with homemade noodles (the hands-down pig-out favorite where I live in southern Ohio). Posts of home-cooked one-upmanship became America’s entertainment. After all, we could not go out to eat and post pictures of that.
An increased jean size or two later – bless those sweat pants -- I decided it wasn’t a good idea to work remotely from my kitchen table. Though the wall behind makes a nice Zoom background, the refrigerator and the bag of chips on the top were way too handy. About then, I stepped on the scale for the first time in weeks. I was at an all-time high.
Emergency action needed, I joined a phone app diet plan “designed to help people lose weight, get fit, and stay healthy.” I craved all those things. I craved them more than Quarantine Blondies, a delectable recipe I had renamed and perfected.
I typed in my credit card number on the diet site and paid my baking penance.
Finally, I lost the 15. My college roommate joined the plan at the same time, and our commiserations have helped. But I wanted to lose a ton before my virus gain, so I’ll continue to dine on tofu. It’s extra firm like I want to be.
I’ll stick with the program. I will. I bought a new scale during a particularly long plateau hoping the old one was defective. It wasn’t, but the new scale is more encouraging. It shows ounces as well as pounds. Today, I count losing that one ounce a victory.
If Covid weren’t so evil, I’d be grateful for this period of – what does my diet plan call it? Reflection and self-discovery? For now, I’ll pretend I don’t see the refrigerator when I pass. The decorative magnets on its door pull me toward its comforting contents, but I will not stop.
Instead, I’ll keep going and head on outside for a walk.
Sarah Crump is a former Plain Dealer reporter who teaches at a community college in southwestern Ohio.
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