Two weeks after Helene I meet two friends at the farmers’ market. I’ve been away for two weeks in Florida, staying with family and waiting for my power and water to come back on. In the short time I’ve been home, thrilled to have my oven back, I’ve been baking and cooking a lot. As it turns out, so has my friend Sylvia. Today I bring her two baby prosciutto and broccoli quiche. She brings me a slice of chocolate peanut butter pie with pretzel crust. We hug for the first time since the hurricane, clutching our baked goods. After being away, it feels good to be with someone who understands what’s happened here at home.
We don’t get very far, just a couple of steps, before we’re swept into a throng of people lining up at a baker’s table piled high with scones, croissants and rugelach.
“I love anything in a pocket,” my friend Lana says. “Pirogi, ravioli, croissants…”
I laugh and agree. I want it ALL right now, all the delicious sweets to fill up the empty pocket that’s taken shape inside of me these last weeks. As we wait in line, the three of us chatter in the fall sunshine, eyeing the feast on the table ahead of us, which seems almost big enough to squash the lack, fear and urgency we all felt when we first lost power and water weeks ago. There was no real warning of the disaster coming. The forecast of heavy rain did not allow for proper preparation, creating desperation as people rushed to buy water, food and gas. I left town to stay with my aunt in St. Augustine, where I experienced more stress as hurricane Milton moved in I scrambled to stay ahead of yet more destruction. Now, back home, with power and water returned, I can finally breathe freely.
Lana, Sylvia and I banter as the line gradually moves toward the front, savoring this in-between place of being hungry and knowing that our cravings will soon be filled. For the past year, we’ve eaten lunch together often at work, sharing bites of favorite homemade meals. Both from Jewish families, Lana and Sylvia grew up with similar values to my own Italian-American ones: Food and family come first. It’s been hard for us all to be isolated these past weeks as the college we work at has been closed.
The idea of “sheltering in place” brings back another disaster not so long ago put to rest. We talk of this as we stand in line, and Sylvia, who’s from New Jersey, shares that she’s been grappling with memories of Hurricane Sandy, which destroyed her childhood home. Lana tells us she had an argument with her father after he told her to “try not to be too depressed” about the hurricane. I, myself, have been grappling with my own ghosts as I’ve resettled into my apartment. With most of the city businesses closed, I’m reminded of the pandemic and my former boyfriend. We passed the time quarantining together by, what else? Cooking. I still find in my cabinets exotic ingredients we experimented with during that time: pomegranate molasses, rosewater, epazote and sumac. All of those new flavors and smells meld together in my memory with the warmth of the kitchen, the feeling of being with a partner.
The relationship is over and this time around, there’s nobody to nest with. As I set about cleaning and restocking my cabinets, questions turn in my head: Why am I alone? Who can I turn to? Will I be okay? It is necessary to console myself aloud, often and gently. To cuddle with my cat. To call friends. And, to drown my sorrows in the kitchen, now that my power has returned. My empty fridge fills gradually with beef stew, quiche and roasted potatoes with rosemary. With each dish created I return a little more to myself; The horror of the hurricane and living off candles, bottled water and canned fish is left further behind. To the baker’s line we three return- twice! Once for savory croissants, another for sweet. In between these visits, we roam the market, cracking jokes and buying vegetables- squash, leeks and jicama, a cross between a potato, turnip and apple- and plot what we will create with them. We find a place to sit down on the sidewalk and slowly eat our croissants, letting the buttery layers fall apart in our mouths. The trees overhead glow deep red, purple and brown; the pavement beneath our skin is warm and soothing like it’s been heated in an oven.
Kristin D'Agostino 